The Billionaire's Reluctant Bride

The Weight Of Small Hands

Serena’s POV

The manor felt hollow.

Even with the quiet murmurs of grieving guests and the clinking of glasses from the wake downstairs, the air inside was thick with loss. It was a suffocating kind of silence, the kind that settled into the bones, making everything feel too heavy, too still.

I stood at the foot of the grand staircase, listening to the distant chatter of people who had come to pay their respects, their voices blending into a meaningless hum. They had said their condolences, shaken hands, whispered their regrets, and now they drank, ate, and made polite conversation as if my sister’s death was just another event to attend before they moved on with their lives.

But upstairs, where grief was raw and real, Eleanor’s children were crying.

Their wails echoed through the hallway, sharp and frantic, piercing through the emptiness of the house. I didn’t think twice before making my way up.

The nursery door was slightly ajar, and as I stepped inside, the sight before me made my chest tighten.

A nanny, one of the many hired to care for the twins, paced the room with one of the babies in her arms, her expression tense. Another staff member held the other, gently bouncing him, but neither attempt was working. The twins’ faces were red from crying, tiny fists clenched, their sobs broken and desperate.

“They won’t settle,” the nanny said, her voice tight with exhaustion. “They’ve been like this for over an hour.”

I moved without thinking, my heart aching as I approached. “Give them to me.”

The woman hesitated, clearly unsure, but eventually, she handed the baby in her arms to me. I reached for the second child, cradling them both against my chest.

Their bodies trembled, hiccuping cries shuddering from their tiny forms. They were inconsolable, writhing against me, lost and afraid.

“I know,” I whispered, stroking their small backs, feeling their warmth seep into me. “I know, sweethearts. I know.”

I wasn’t their mother. I could never be Eleanor. But I had held them before, countless times, when they were just tiny bundles in my sister’s arms. I had whispered to them, kissed their soft foreheads, marveled at the way their fingers curled around mine.

And now, as they cried in my arms, I held them the only way I knew how—with love.

I swayed gently, humming a lullaby my mother used to sing to us when we were children. My voice was unsteady at first, cracked from the weight of grief, but I kept singing, kept rocking them, letting them feel the steady rhythm of my heartbeat.

Slowly, their sobs softened.

Their small bodies relaxed, fists unclenching, breathing evening out. Within minutes, their cries faded into soft whimpers, then peaceful silence.

They had fallen asleep.

I exhaled, my shoulders sagging, pressing a gentle kiss to each of their foreheads.

It was only then that I realized we weren’t alone.

Across the room, standing near the doorway, was Damien.

His dark eyes were fixed on me, unreadable, but there was something in the way he stood—rigid yet hesitant, like he had walked into something he wasn’t prepared to witness.

He was still dressed in his funeral suit, his tie loosened, the first few buttons of his shirt undone. His jaw was tight, as if he had been grinding his teeth.

I expected him to say something, to acknowledge what had just happened, but he didn’t. He just watched, his gaze flickering from the sleeping twins to me, lingering for a moment too long before he finally spoke.

“They never settled for anyone else,” he murmured, his voice quieter than usual.

I looked down at the babies in my arms, my throat tightening.

“They’re just scared,” I said softly. “Everything they knew is gone.”

Damien’s expression flickered—just for a second, something unreadable flashing in his dark eyes. Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

He took a step closer, but there was hesitation in his movements, like he wasn’t sure if he should. His hands curled into fists at his sides, tension rolling off him in waves.

“I’ll take them,” he said after a pause, reaching for one of them.

I instinctively pulled back.

“They just fell asleep,” I whispered. “Let them rest.”

His fingers froze midair before he withdrew his hand, his jaw tightening.

The silence between us stretched, filled only by the quiet breaths of the twins against my chest. For the first time since Eleanor’s death, the house didn’t feel so empty.

Damien exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face before turning toward the door.

“Get some rest,” he muttered before walking away.

But as I looked down at the sleeping children in my arms, I already knew—rest was the last thing I would be getting tonight.