My name is Trevor Callahan, and I once believed that control was the same thing as safety. At thirty nine, I was known across the country as a ruthless investor who never lost a negotiation and never left a detail unchecked. My calendar ruled my life, my assistants ruled my schedule, and my home ran like a machine that never paused. Then my wife Brianna died on a rain soaked highway, and the machine shattered overnight.
She left me with twin children who had just turned one. Jonah had Brianna eyes and an easy laugh. Paige had my stubborn jaw and a cry that cut through walls. I brought them home from the hospital to a mansion overlooking the water in Washington State, a house made of glass and steel that reflected every light but held no warmth. I walked room to room with a bottle in one hand and a phone in the other, pretending that grief could be handled like a project deadline.