Ethan stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, coffee mug in hand. He looked impossibly composed—tailored shirt, sharp jawline, but exhaustion shadowed his eyes.
“Where am I?” she whispered.
“My house,” he said gently. “You were found unconscious in Central Park last night. You and your babies. You’re safe now.”
Her fingers trembled. “My babies—where are they?”
“They’re here. Upstairs with the nurse. They’re fine.”
She exhaled a sob of relief, tears filling her eyes. “I thought… I thought we wouldn’t make it.”
Ethan hesitated before speaking again. “You were half-frozen. No ID, no phone, no address. The hospital couldn’t find anyone. So I—brought you here.”
Harper looked at him, truly looked at him—the man every magazine had called America’s youngest billionaire. Ethan Cross. She’d seen his face before on screens in Times Square, on tech covers in grocery stores.
“I should go,” she said, voice shaky. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“You need rest,” he replied calmly. “Your twins need warmth and care. Leaving isn’t an option yet.”
For the next few days, the mansion became a strange refuge. Harper watched her babies sleep in soft cribs she didn’t deserve. Ethan arranged doctors, formula, even tiny clothes with the tags still on. He never asked questions. He just… helped.
But on the fourth night, as snow fell again outside the tall windows, Harper couldn’t sleep. The guilt gnawed at her. The secret she’d carried for months—buried under fear and shame—was catching up to her.
She found Ethan in his study, typing at his laptop, the fireplace painting his face in amber light.
“I owe you the truth,” she said quietly.