She clutched her glass with both hands. Her smile was polite—practiced—but it didn’t reach her eyes.
As if she felt their gaze, she turned.
Her eyes landed on her daughters—because yes, Ethan could see it now. The same curls. The same shape of the face. The same stubborn chin.
And then her gaze slid to Ethan.
Surprise flickered across her expression. Then concern. Then something quieter—like resignation. Like she was already preparing to handle whatever strange situation her children had created.
She set her glass down and walked toward them, her heels moving steadily across the polished floor.
Ethan had only seconds to decide what kind of man he wanted to be in this moment.
He thought of Clara—how she used to squeeze his hand and say, “If you can make someone feel less alone, you do it. Even if it’s small.”
He looked at the three girls, hope and nerves written plainly on their faces.
“All right,” he said softly. “But first, tell me your names.”
