Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching dust motes kicked up by the chaos. To any outsider this was pure, instinctive love. To Ethan—filtered through grief, control, and class—it was anarchy.
Germs on those gloves. Risk at that height. Disrespect to polished floors. A domestic employee turning his children into circus performers.
Blood roared in his ears. The calculated venture capitalist vanished; only the terrified, offended father remained.
“What the hell,” he breathed.
Lena made airplane engine noises. The twins erupted in fresh peals of laughter—oblivious to the rigid silhouette in the doorway.
That happiness felt like a personal insult. How dare she make them laugh when he, their father, could barely coax a smile?
The spell shattered with his voice. Not a shout—a dry, venomous crack of thunder.
“Lena.”
The effect was catastrophic.
Her body jerked in fright. The delicate balance collapsed. Santi—startled—twisted toward the door. His legs buckled. He tilted right, toward the sharp edge of the glass coffee table.
“Watch out!” Ethan lunged forward, too far to reach.