But what stole my breath wasn’t his condition.
It was his arms.
They formed a desperate cradle around three tiny bundles wrapped in white blankets, already stained with mud.
Three newborn babies.
Three fragile lives.
The man lifted his head slowly, like every movement cost him everything. His green eyes—sunken, bloodshot with exhaustion—locked onto mine.
I’d seen those eyes before.
In business magazines Eleanor left lying around.
In framed photos that used to hang in the mansion.
—M-Mr. Alexander Whitmore… —I whispered, my knees going weak.
The heir.
The man everyone said was dead.
The sound he made wasn’t a laugh—it was a rasp.
—Water… —he croaked. —Please. My children.
One of the babies shifted and let out a sharp cry. Alexander flinched like he’d been shot, lowering his head, rocking them clumsily, desperately.
—Shh… I’m here… —he whispered, tears streaming down his face. —Please… angels… don’t make noise…
The contrast made me dizzy. The richest man in the county, lying in the dirt like a beggar, terrified that his own newborns might be heard.
—They say you died —I said, dropping to my knees. —Your car went over the cliff. There was a funeral. Mrs. Whitmore—
His eyes hardened instantly.