Two three-year-old twins walked into a $230 million boardroom meeting and pointed at the CEO, whispering four terrifying words.

Not a single executive dared to breathe. The legal counsel’s hand froze mid-air over his tablet, his mouth slightly open, while the head of financial operations stared at the floor as if trying to erase himself from the room.

Adrian did not shout. He did not call security to remove the children.

The fountain pen in his right hand slowly lowered to the polished walnut surface. Adrian’s dark eyes locked onto the two tiny figures standing in front of his polished leather shoes. A sudden, visceral stillness settled over his muscular frame. His gaze moved from the faded pink ribbon in Lucy’s hair to the frayed patches meticulously sewn onto Abby’s yellow dress—hand-stitched repair work he recognized with a sharp, painful shock.

Slowly, deliberately, Adrian pushed his heavy leather chair back. The metal casters rolled smoothly across the floorboards. He lowered his tall frame, crouching down until his eyes were at exact eye level with the two girls.

The sharp scent of his expensive cedarwood cologne mixed with the faint, humble smell of soap and faded cotton that clung to the children.

"What’s your mother’s name?" Adrian asked. His voice was low, gravelly, and entirely stripped of its usual corporate frost.

Lucy squeezed the ear of her stuffed rabbit, her small fingers trembling slightly against the faded fur.

"Clara Monroe," Lucy whispered softly.

Adrian’s expression changed instantly. The color drained from his face, leaving his jaw rigid beneath his trimmed stubble. The ink along his throat seemed to darken as the muscles in his neck tightened into hard cords. For a fraction of a second, the formidable businessman vanished, replaced by a man struck by an invisible, devastating blow.

He looked rapidly between the two girls—taking in the shape of their eyes, the exact arch of their brows, and the identical, stubborn set of their chins.