Adrian Whitmore wasn’t supposed to be home for another three days.
The business trip had been scheduled down to the minute—meetings, dinners, contracts. He had told everyone he’d be gone until Friday. Even the house staff believed it.
But the deal ended early.
And for reasons he couldn’t explain, Adrian didn’t call ahead.
The mansion stood tall and quiet as his car pulled into the driveway just after noon. Too quiet.
For a house with two eight-month-old babies, silence wasn’t comforting—it was unsettling.
Adrian stepped inside, the door closing softly behind him. No crying. No nanny voices. No sound of bottles or toys.
His heart tightened.
“Hello?” he called.
Nothing.
He walked deeper into the house, each step echoing across polished floors. His mind raced through worst-case scenarios—sickness, negligence, rules broken. He’d set those rules himself, after all.
Strict ones.
No one was to carry the twins unnecessarily. No one was to form “emotional attachments.” They were to be cared for professionally, efficiently.
Safely.
Then he heard it.
A low hum.
Soft. Steady. Almost like a lullaby.
It drifted from the kitchen.
Adrian slowed, approaching the doorway quietly.
And froze.
At the granite island stood Maria—the maid he’d hired half a year earlier. She wore her gray uniform, yellow cleaning gloves on her hands as she wiped the counter in careful strokes.
But that wasn’t what made Adrian’s breath catch.
Strapped securely to her back were his twin boys.
Leo and Max.
Both awake.
Both smiling.
One of them let out a delighted little giggle, tiny fingers gripping the fabric straps like he’d done it a hundred times before.
The twins—who screamed through bath time, who cried whenever they were put down, who never slept for more than twenty minutes at a stretch—were calm.
Peaceful.
Happy.
On her back.
Maria shifted her weight gently, rocking them as she cleaned. The hum continued—soft, instinctive. The kind of sound a mother made without thinking.
Adrian couldn’t move.
He felt like an intruder in his own home.
And for the first time since his wife had died during childbirth, the scene in front of him didn’t feel like chaos or grief.
It felt… normal.
Like family.
“What is going on here?”
Maria startled.
She turned too fast, eyes widening when she saw him standing there. Color drained from her face.
“Mr. Whitmore—I—I’m sorry,” she rushed out. “I can explain. I know the rules. I wasn’t supposed to—”
“Don’t,” Adrian said quietly.
She froze, hands mid-air.
The twins squirmed happily, unaware of the tension. One of them reached up and grabbed a lock of her blonde hair, laughing.
“They wouldn’t stop crying,” Maria said softly, voice trembling. “All morning. I fed them, changed them, walked them around the house. Nothing worked. Then I remembered my mother used to carry my brothers like this. I didn’t think—”
“How long?” Adrian asked.
“About an hour.”
An hour.
An hour without screaming.
An hour of peace he hadn’t experienced since the day his wife died.
Adrian stepped closer.
He noticed details then—the twins’ relaxed hands, the absence of tear-streaked faces, the way Leo’s head rested naturally against Maria’s shoulder.