579 Something was terribly wrong the moment my twin daughters started screaming at three in the morning, and I stormed toward the nursery ready to fire the new nanny on the spot. Nothing could have prepared me for the sight that waited behind that door, because the woman I was certain had failed my family was doing the one thing I hadn't been able to do since my wife died.

When I returned to the mansion late that evening, the house was wrapped in an unnatural, heavy quiet.

I walked through the double front doors, handing my overcoat to the butler, Jenkins, who looked slightly more relaxed than usual.

"Good evening, sir," Jenkins murmured. "Miss Navarro prepared a light supper for you in the study. She mentioned you missed lunch."

"Thank you, Jenkins."

Instead of going straight to my office, I found my footsteps leading me toward the east wing. The hallway was dimly lit by antique sconces. As I approached the nursery, I expected to hear the familiar, agonizing wails that had tortured my nights for months.

Instead, I heard music.

Not the cheerful, tinny sound of a lullaby box, but soft, acoustic guitar strings playing a gentle melody.

I stopped outside the door. It wasn't locked. In fact, it was cracked open an inch.

I peered inside.

The room was bathed in a warm amber glow from a Himalayan salt lamp. Elise was sitting in the rocking chair, holding Rosie against her chest while Maisie rested peacefully in her crib nearby, her little eyelids fluttering shut. Elise wasn't dancing tonight. She was humming softly, her eyes closed, her cheek resting gently against Rosie's dark curls.

For a terrifying, beautiful second, the silhouette in the rocking chair didn't look like Elise.

It looked like Sarah.

My chest seized. My hand gripped the edge of the doorframe so hard my knuckles turned white. Sarah used to sit in that exact chair, humming that exact melody while the rain beat against the tall Chicago windows. She had loved this room. She had painted the clouds on the ceiling herself, standing on a stepladder while eight months pregnant, laughing at me because I was terrified she’d fall.

She didn't fall then. But she had fallen later, slipping away in a sterile hospital room after a sudden aneurysm stole her from us without a warning.

A sharp intake of breath escaped my lips.

Inside the room, Elise’s eyes snapped open. She looked toward the door and saw me standing there in the shadows.

She didn't panic tonight. She just stopped humming, gently shifting Rosie into her crib before standing up and walking toward the door. She pulled it open the rest of the way, stepping out into the hallway and softly clicking it shut behind her so the twins wouldn't be disturbed.

"Mr. Caruso," she whispered, her eyes searching my face in the dim light. "Are you alright? You're shaking."

I swallowed hard, trying to regain control of my voice, my armor, my rigid composure. "I thought... I thought I heard music."

"Just a lullaby," Elise said softly, her gaze steady and compassionate. "They needed help settling down tonight. The weather front coming off the lake is making their joints ache. It's common with babies."

I looked down at her—really looked at her. Beneath the professional composure, there was a profound weariness, but also a resilience that defied her years.