“I’m Daniel Brooks. These are my daughters, Lily and Emma. And they’re right about one thing. It’s too cold for this. When did you last eat?”
She didn’t answer.
“It’s not pity,” Daniel said carefully. “Just… come warm up. Have dinner. After that, you can decide what you want. No pressure.”
Emily wanted to refuse. Pride was thin but stubborn. Yet the cold was unbearable, and the twins’ hopeful faces cracked something inside her.
“Just to warm up,” she said finally.
“Yes!” the girls cheered.
Daniel’s SUV was immaculate, leather seats and warmth enveloping her immediately. Emily felt painfully aware of the dirt she carried with her.
“They’re just seats,” Daniel said when she apologized. “They can be cleaned.”
They drove while the twins chattered about hot chocolate and the “room that could be hers.” Daniel explained quietly that their mother, Catherine, had died eighteen months ago. Since then, nothing had felt steady.
The Brooks home was enormous—gated, lit warmly against the snow. Emily nearly refused again.
“It’s just a house,” Daniel said gently. “Please.”
Inside, it was elegant but strangely hollow. An older housekeeper, Margaret, greeted them with composed curiosity.