The waiting was worse than the confrontation.
Noah learned that on the second night.
The first night had been sharp. Raw. Heavy with words that cut and questions that refused to settle. But the second night—when nothing happened, when no one fought, when the mansion resumed its quiet rhythm—that was unbearable.
He hated routine when his mind was anything but calm.
He moved through the house like he always did—precise, efficient, invisible when necessary. Breakfast prepared. Calls redirected. Files organized for Matthew's afternoon meetings. Amara's bottles sterilized. Laundry folded.
No one commented on how still he'd become.
But Aiden noticed.
Aiden always noticed.
Noah was in the nursery when Aiden stepped in quietly. Amara was asleep, one tiny fist wrapped around the corner of her blanket. Her curls were beginning to form more distinctly now—soft spirals framing her small face.
"She looks like Vinny," Aiden murmured.
Noah didn't turn. "She acts like Matthew."
