Hannah Morales, the young housekeeper, stood there holding one of the twins, Noah, while Eli clung to her leg. The boys were barely two, their eyes wide with fear.
“Sir… I’m sorry,” Hannah whispered. “They heard the yelling. They wanted their dad.”
Veronica spun on her like a viper.
“Who told you to bring those things in here?” she snapped. “Get them out. They stink of poverty. I don’t want to see Ethan’s mistakes in my bedroom.”
Inside, Ethan shook with fury—but stayed still. He needed to see the truth completely.
“They’re my sons,” he said weakly, forcing a broken voice.
“Shut up!” Veronica screamed, grabbing a porcelain vase and smashing it against the wall inches from Hannah’s head. The twins began to sob.
“I’m done with this house. Done with kids that aren’t even mine. And done with you,” she spat. “If you don’t sign by tomorrow morning, I’ll dump you in a cheap facility and cancel your treatments. And you—” she pointed at Hannah, “—you’ll be back on the streets with them.”
Hannah trembled, not for herself, but for the children. Then she straightened.