The door opened.
Victor Hale froze. His navy suit, his tie loosened from the journey, the briefcase still in his hand. His face, usually as sharp as the decisions he made in his companies, saw its geometry crumble. His eyes, accustomed to exact numbers and airtight reports, had to learn, all at once, to see what doesn’t fit into an audit: bound wrists, two babies clinging to an exhausted woman, a room that smelled of spoiled milk and fear.
“What is this?” his voice thundered, more from horror than anger.
Elena hugged the children. “Sir… please… don’t shout. You’ll wake them.”
“Don’t tell me what to do in my own house!” And yet, the voice dropped to a roar. “Explain it to me. Now.”
“I… I didn’t…” she stammered. “I didn’t tie myself…”
The click of heels. The sound Elena already recognized in her dreams. Catherine appeared leaning against the frame with a theatrical smile.
“Darling, I didn’t expect you back so soon,” she said, and the diminutive was a perfumed knife.
“What does this mean, Catherine?” Victor didn’t take his eyes off Elena’s wrists
—What you see. I found her lounging in our bed while the babies were crying. So… I made sure she didn’t leave for another second.
