That was why, when Matthew Cross stepped out of his car at his countryside estate and heard three voices laughing at once just after four in the afternoon, something inside his chest came undone. His heart stuttered, unsure whether to race or stop altogether.
He had come straight from the city, still wrapped in his perfectly pressed gray suit, his mind crowded with contracts and numbers. The leather briefcase in his hand carried the faint scent of airports and exhaustion. He hadn’t told anyone he was coming. He only wanted to see his children—just for a moment—before the day disappeared into meetings again.
Halfway across the garden, he froze.
His 1-year-old triplet daughters—Lily, Ava, and Nora—were laughing freely, clinging to the back of a woman crawling across the lawn.
It wasn’t Claire, his impeccably polished fiancée who spoke softly to doctors and guests.
It wasn’t a therapist.
It wasn’t a nurse.
It was Hannah Reed, the housekeeper.