He crouched and pried Santi’s fingers from her leg. The boy kicked, tiny fists pounding Ethan’s Tom Ford jacket, reaching desperately for the woman in yellow gloves.
Jealousy—sharp, unexpected—stabbed through him.
“Get out of my sight,” he hissed, lifting Santi. “Go to your room. Pack. Wait for me to decide what happens next. And take off those ridiculous gloves. This is a serious house—not a clown show.”
Lena rose slowly. She peeled off the yellow gloves, revealing work-roughened hands. She looked at the boys one last time—Nico’s tear-streaked face staring from the couch, Santi still crying in his father’s arms.
“I only wanted them to stop being afraid of falling,” she whispered.
“The only thing they’ve lost today is respect,” he snapped, turning away. “Leave.”
She walked toward the service door, each step a defeat. Behind her the twins’ crying swelled, no longer joyful but raw, demanding.
Ethan stood alone in his perfect room with two sons who didn’t want him and a victory that tasted like ash.
