The knock came at 10:17 a.m. on a Tuesday in late January—sharp, official, three raps that echoed through the chalet like a warning shot.
Fukky was in the kitchen pouring coffee when the sound reached her.
She froze, mug halfway to her lips.
The brothers were scattered—Rafael in his study on a call, Augustine in the gym, Gabriel upstairs tinkering with some gadget—but they converged on the foyer within seconds, moving as one unit the way they always did when something felt wrong.
Rafael opened the door.
Outside stood her ex-fiancé, Ethan Caldwell—tailored overcoat, expensive haircut, two lawyers in dark suits flanking him like shadows.
Snow dusted their shoulders.
A black SUV idled behind them, exhaust curling white in the freezing air.
Ethan’s smile was thin, practiced, the same o
