KILLIAN.
The pack house was unraveling thread by thread, and every single one of those threads had my name on it.
I stood in the doorway of the children’s playroom, watching Leo push his plate away for the fourth time that morning. The toast and eggs sat untouched, growing cold. His small face was pale, his eyes red and swollen from crying through the night. He kept glancing at the door like he expected Candice to walk in any second with her usual soft smile and quiet “eat up, baby.”
“Leo, please,” I said, my voice rough and exhausted. I knelt beside him and gently pushed the plate closer. “Just a few bites. You need to eat something. Mummy wouldn’t want you to go hungry.”
He shook his head, lips trembling. “I’m not hungry. I want Mummy.”
The words sliced through me like a blade strai
