Talia sat stiffly in the backseat of the sleek black SUV, arms folded, lips pressed tight. The twins, Zane and Luna, were fast asleep in their carriers beside her, oblivious to the emotional storm brewing in their mother's chest.
Up front, Ethan was silent. His grip on the wheel was tight, his jaw clenched, but his eyes flicked toward the rearview mirror every few seconds, checking on her. Always checking. As if she might vanish.
She wanted to vanish.
"You didn't have to do this," she muttered, not looking at him.
"I'm not arguing about this again," he replied calmly. "My children are not going to be raised in that cramped apartment with a leaking ceiling and barely working plumbing."
She rolled her eyes. "My home, Ethan. That cramped apartment was my home."
He didn't respond. Instead, he pulled into a private driveway that curved through trees and flowers that looked like they were straight out of a painting.
Talia's jaw slackened as the mansion came into view.
