Their older sister, Ava, laughed freely, hair stuck to her forehead, dimples deep. The nanny—Clara Bennett, newly hired—raised her hands in encouragement, her words lost to the breeze.
Julian walked closer. Training cones and stacked tires interrupted the pristine garden. With each step, he counted losses: carpets, stone floors, image, control. Yet something in the children’s joy cracked his composure.
“Clara,” he called, sharper than intended.
The laughter softened but did not stop.
Clara turned calmly, knees muddy, uniform damp. She met his gaze with quiet confidence. Julian stopped at the edge of the puddle.
Between his polished shoe and the murky water lay a boundary he’d lived with his entire life. On the other side stood his children—and her.
He straightened, voice firm.
“What exactly is happening here?”
The garden fell silent except for dripping water. Clara lifted her head, sunlight catching loose strands of hair. She looked unashamed. Certain.
“Mr. Hawthorne,” she said evenly, “they’re learning to work together.”
Julian frowned.
“Learning? This looks like chaos.”
She gestured toward the children.