Chapter 2 - The Cold Truth
The silence in the freezing room pressed against Ethan’s temples like a vice. His knees sank into the bare hardwood floor as he gathered Ava into his arms. She was so light—impossibly light, like a bundle of dry twigs wrapped in cotton. When he pulled Chloe out from under the table, she curled into a tight defensive ball, whimpering softly until she smelled his familiar cedar cologne.
"It’s Daddy," Ethan murmured, his voice cracking beneath the weight of suffocating grief and rage. "It’s Daddy, sweet girl. Look at me. Nobody is taking anything away."
He reached out and pulled the plastic plate toward him. The bread was hard as stone, dusted with patches of greenish-gray mold along the crust. It was the kind of scrap someone would hesitate to toss to pigeons in a park, yet his four little girls had been dividing it with surgical precision so each sister could have a bite.
He touched Grace’s hand. Her fingers were blue at the nails, ice-cold to the touch. The radiator against the far wall wasn't just off; it was ice-cold. Ethan reached over and twisted the valve. It was locked in place with a small metal padlock.
Someone had intentionally locked off the heat to this wing.
"Where is Mrs. Gable?" Ethan asked, referring to the head nanny he had hired five months ago, paying six figures to ensure his girls had around-the-clock care. "Where are the meals she cooks for you?"
Mia wiped her nose with the frayed sleeve of her nightgown. "Mrs. Gable cried two weeks ago. She told Mama Bianca that leaving us in the cold was against the law. Then two men with badges came and took Mrs. Gable away. Mama Bianca told us Mrs. Gable stole silver spoons and that bad girls don't get nannies."
Ethan felt the blood roar in his ears. Every single dollar he had sent from his London office—every transfer marked *Children’s Living Expenses*, *Organic Catering*, *Private Tutoring*—had vanished into Bianca’s bottomless vanity.
He stripped off his heavy cashmere coat and wrapped it around Mia and Chloe, then pulled off his wool blazer to drape it over Ava and Grace.
"Listen to me," Ethan whispered, looking each of them in the eyes. "You will never, ever eat moldy bread again. You will never sleep cold again. I am here, and Daddy is never leaving."
He stood up, his jaw set like granite. Taking out his phone, he dialed his head of private security, Mark Vance.
"Mark," Ethan said, his voice deadly quiet. "Bring the team into the west wing immediately. Bring heavy blankets, thermal flasks of soup, and Dr. Reynolds. Now."
"Sir? What about the party downstairs?" Mark asked.
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"Let them keep dancing," Ethan whispered, his eyes narrowing toward the closed oak door. "Because when I walk into that ballroom, the party is over forever."
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