Every sound from outside made them pause, every passing car made them run to the window, hoping it might be their father finally coming home. It had become a small ritual for them—waiting, hoping, counting minutes in a house that felt too big when he wasn’t there.
Lily Morgan, barely seven, sat cross-legged on the living room floor, rolling a bright blue ball back and forth while keeping one eye on her baby brother, Noah Morgan, who was only ten months old and still unsteady, his tiny hands reaching for anything within sight. His laughter came easily, soft and pure, echoing lightly through the room.
But not everyone found it charming.
Across the room stood Vanessa Morgan, their stepmother, watching with a tight expression that never quite softened. She had married into the house, into the life, into the wealth—but never into the children.
Noise irritated her.
Movement annoyed her.
And the children, with their endless curiosity and innocent energy, felt like an intrusion she could never fully tolerate.
The sound of the ball rolling across the marble floor—again and again—finally snapped whatever patience she had left.