The snow thickened, blanketing the city in white. Ethan drove toward his penthouse, jaw tight. Once, he’d thought money could solve anything. But seeing his ex-wife and three children—three unknown children—shivering in his car, he realized how little his fortune meant.
When they reached his building, Lauren tried to protest again.
“We can’t stay here,” she said softly. “Just take us to a shelter.”
“You’re not sleeping outside another night,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Not while I’m breathing.”
He handed the valet his keys, lifted the youngest child into his arms, and led them inside.
The elevator doors opened into a world Lauren hadn’t seen in almost a decade. Ethan’s penthouse, high above Atlanta. Everything gleamed—glass, chrome, white marble. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched for miles.
But Lauren’s eyes went straight to the children. They stood at the threshold, hesitant, snow still melting from their sleeves.
“Take off your shoes,” Ethan said quietly. His voice carried the kind of authority that once made boardrooms fall silent, but tonight it trembled slightly, like he was trying to convince himself he was doing the right thing.