Page 20 of The Silent Hour

Ethan had been there for that part and some of the before. He brought me flowers after solos and took me to late-night dinners when I stumbled offstage exhausted, always reminding me that my music mattered. Then the twins came, and with them came bed rest, monitors, and months when he carried the weight of the world while I lay still and waited.

Whenever I got scared, he was unshakable, promising we'd get through it together. I had great parents and so did he, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t worried about fucking up my kids. Hell, there were still some days I sat and wondered how the fuck I was responsible for two other lives when I could be such a hot mess myself.

After they were born, everything shifted.

The violin fell quiet, replaced by bottles and lullabies.

I poured myself into them, into Ethan, and into our home. Somewhere along the way, I picked up a brush and painted again for the first time since college, a different kind of art. Notes gave way to color, to messy strokes that weren't for applause but for me.

That's not to say Ethan pulled a Houdini.

He was an incredible father and a devoted husband. My best friend. For a man busier than God, carrying his share of The Marcelli Group, he was always working, always in motion, but he never let that get in the way of us. He made sure that when the girls looked back on their childhood, they'd remember him being there.

Every recital or sport.

Every birthday.

Every first day of school.

He showed up, even if it meant walking into court afterward with minutes to spare or moving mountains to rearrange his schedule. By then, his reputation spoke for itself, and he'd earned enough power in his career to wield it when he needed to.

The sharp, rhythmic click of polished leather on tile pulled me from my thoughts. Ethan swept into the kitchen, immaculate in a charcoal suit that fit him like a second skin, a silk tie the color of a stormy sky knotted precisely at his throat. The air shifted with his arrival, charged and familiar.

"Daddy!" the girls chorused, their voices a perfect harmony.

He bent at the waist, a study in controlled grace, and pressed a kiss to each crown—Ari's dark, flyaway strands and Ellie's riot of curls. Then he was behind me, his hands finding my hips before sliding around my waist. I felt the fine wool of his suit jacket against my back, the warmth of his chest seeping through my thin cotton shirt.

His lips brushed my temple, a whisper of contact before he turned my face toward his. The kiss was deep and claiming, tasting of mint and the faint, rich promise of coffee, lasting just long enough to earn twin groans and snickers from our audience.

"Gross," Aria declared with theatrical disgust.

Ellie giggled, covering her eyes with small, manicured hands.

Ethan smirked against my mouth, a quick flash of white teeth and shared conspiracy, before pulling away to reach for his travel mug.

"You're working the Ruiz case today?" I asked, lowering my voice despite the girls being right there. Small ears and big mouths, I'd come to learn.

His jaw tightened slightly, but his eyes stayed steady. "Yeah. Piecing together plans A, B, and C. Let's hope we never need C."

Something cold brushed down my spine. I nodded anyway, turning back to the pancakes so he wouldn't see it on my face. The Ruiz family was old money and good people—the kind who sent flowers when your daughters were born and remembered your name at Christmas. Senior Ruiz had kept The Marcelli Group on retainer for years. The difference now was that it was Senior who needed saving.

"And you're meeting up with Toya later, right?" he asked, his eyes flicking toward me as he took a slow sip from his ceramic mug.

Steam curled from the dark surface of the coffee. I watched his throat work as he swallowed the scalding liquid without so much as a flinch. Never understood how he did that.

"For brunch," I confirmed, turning the last golden pancake onto the stack. "And then we have plans once the girls are out of school."

He set the mug down with a soft click and leaned into my space, his mouth grazing the shell of my ear. The scent of his expensive cologne and freshly brewed coffee filled my lungs as his voice dropped to a husky whisper only I could hear. "You sore from last night?"

A shiver traced its way down my spine. I tilted my head just enough to let my lips brush his stubbled jaw as I answered quietly, "Technically, that was this morning, but I'm never too sore for more."

"Good." His hand came up to cradle the back of my neck, fingers tangling in the messy knot of my hair as he brought his mouth to mine. The kiss was slower, deeper this time—a deliberate vow pressed to my lips that tasted of mint and dark roast. When he finally pulled back, his eyes had gone dark.

"I love you, bella," he murmured, his voice carrying that rough edge that always undid me.

"I love you too." My words came out breathless as I gave him one last quick, soft kiss before letting my hands fall from his lapels.

He moved away with practiced grace, crouching to meet our girls at eye level. I watched his large hands frame their small faces as he whispered promises to bring home something sweet. Then he was gone, coffee in one hand and leather briefcase swinging at his side, the sharp rhythm of his polished Oxfords fading down the hall toward the foyer.