The penthouse was too quiet.
Ethan had finally fallen asleep, curled up in the middle of Damien’s massive bed—our bed, his words, not mine—his little fingers clutching the edge of the silk sheets like he was afraid they’d disappear.
Emma sat on the edge of the mattress, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, her fingers brushing through his soft hair. He has been so happy today, despite everything. His eyes had lit up like stars when Damien showed him the private playroom he’d had designed—for him. For our son.
And that was the problem.
Because every time Ethan smiled at Damien, every time he called him Daddy with that bright, unshakable trust, another piece of Emma’s resolve crumbled.
I can’t let this happen. On top of that, Evan is still in the hospital. I haven't
