Dinner that night started like any other. The long table was crowded with plates of Dirk’s slow-roasted lamb, rosemary potatoes, glazed carrots, and fresh bread still warm from the oven. Laughter floated across the room—Liam telling a story about a disastrous penalty kick, Christian mocking his own runway mishap years ago, the twins trading barbs over who’d eaten the last dinner roll. I sat between Dylan and Dirk, feeling the familiar rhythm of the house settle around me like a blanket.
Then Isaac’s fork clattered against his plate.
The sound cut through the chatter like a knife.
He was staring at the center of the table, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped. Everyone quieted, sensing the shift.
“You’re all full of s**t,” he said, voice low and shaking.
Chase reached for his brothe
