Chapter 3

Ethan' s recovery progressed quickly, his physical strength returning with alarming speed, his arrogance fully intact.

Ashley was, of course, contacted. She arrived like a returning queen, all sympathetic smiles for Ethan and cool dismissal for me.

Ethan, with Ashley fawning over him, misinterpreted my quiet dignity as coldness, my weariness as indifference.

He seemed to think my five years of managing his care, his household, and raising our children were a calculated power grab.

I tried to focus on Leo and Lily, to shield them.

But Ethan made no effort to connect with them. He saw them as part of the arrangement he despised.

"They don' t even look like me," he' d muttered once, loud enough for me to hear, his eyes filled with suspicion.

He never asked about their births, their first steps, their first words. Those were my memories, mine alone.

My only true concern was for Leo and Lily, for their stability. I told him I only wanted what was best for them.

He twisted that. "Of course, the concerned mother. Using the children to secure your position. How very predictable."

One afternoon, Lily, then four years old, toddled up to Ethan as he sat in the sunroom, Ashley at his side.

Lily held up a drawing, a bright, messy picture of a stick figure family. "Daddy," she said, her voice small, "this is for you."

Ethan glanced at it, then at her, his face unreadable.

Ashley cooed, "Oh, how sweet, Ethan. She' s trying."

Lily, encouraged, pointed to the drawing. "This is Mommy, this is Leo, this is me, and this is you, Daddy. We' re all happy."

Ethan' s face darkened. "Happy?" He looked at me, then back at Lily. "What do you know about happy?"

His voice wasn' t loud, but it was harsh, edged with something ugly.

Lily' s smile faltered. Her lower lip began to tremble.

"Don' t be silly, child," Ethan snapped, his irritation growing. "Go play somewhere else. Can' t you see I' m busy?"

Lily' s eyes filled with tears. She looked from Ethan to me, her small face a mask of confusion and hurt.

She had hoped, I knew, for a father. For the daddy from her storybooks.

Instead, she got this cold, angry man.

I stepped forward. "Ethan, that' s enough."

He turned on me. "Enough? I' ll say when it' s enough. She needs to learn some manners, not interrupt."

"She' s four years old," I said, my voice tight. "She was trying to be kind."

The outburst, the casual cruelty to Lily, was a shock. He didn' t just dislike me; he was capable of hurting them, too.

Ethan scoffed. "Kind? Or taught to be manipulative, just like her mother?"

Lily started to cry, a small, heartbroken sound. She ran to me, burying her face in my skirt.

Ethan watched, a flicker of something – annoyance? Discomfort? – in his eyes before he hardened them again.

He was breaking their hearts, and he didn' t even care.