The rain had stopped by the time Marcus Halloway’s driver turned into Maple Crest Lane, but the sky still looked bruised. The Halloway mansion sat perfect behind trimmed hedges—glass and stone arranged like a promise. Marcus silenced his phone and stepped out alone. He’d flown home early from Chicago after a dinner that should have felt like victory and instead felt empty. Lately, success had come with applause: interviews, charity galas, headlines calling him a “self-made miracle.” Yet the only thing he wanted to hear was Lily’s laughter in the hallway.
Inside, the house felt wrong—too quiet for a home with children. No cartoons, no footsteps, no music. Marcus followed a faint clink of a spoon toward the kitchen. The marble floor was cold under his shoes.
He stopped in the doorway.
Six-year-old Lily stood between the counter and a high chair, arms stretched wide like a shield. In the chair, baby Noah’s cheeks were wet, his tiny fists clenched. A puddle of milk spread across the tile, dripping from an overturned sippy cup.
Across from them, Veronica—Marcus’s new wife—held a dish towel in one hand and a sharpness in her face he had never seen in public. “Look at this mess,” she hissed, voice low but cutting. “Do you know how much this floor costs?”
Lily trembled but didn’t move. “It was an accident,” she whispered. “Please don’t touch him.”
Veronica stepped forward. “Then clean it. If you’re going to act like a little mother, be useful.”
Noah’s cry rose into a panicked wail. Lily’s chin quivered, and Marcus noticed a fading yellow bruise on her wrist, shaped like fingers. His stomach dropped. The world he’d been building—deals, donations, the illusion of a complete family—cracked in a single breath.
“Veronica.” Marcus’s voice filled the room.
She spun around, towel frozen midair. For a second, her fundraiser smile tried to appear. It failed. “Marcus—you’re home early.”
He walked in slowly, eyes on Lily’s wrist, then on Noah’s tear-streaked face. “What is going on?”
Veronica’s gaze flicked to the spilled milk. “Nothing. She’s dramatic. He keeps crying. I’m trying to teach them discipline.”
Lily didn’t look at Marcus. She stared at the floor, as if the marble might swallow her.
Marcus knelt beside her, careful not to startle her. “Sweetheart,” he said, soft now, “did she hurt you?”
Lily finally lifted her eyes. They were too old for six. “Daddy,” she breathed, then whispered, “Please don’t leave again.”
Behind him, Veronica exhaled, impatient.
Marcus stood up, heart pounding, and realized he didn’t actually know what happened in his own home when he wasn’t watching—so what else had he been too busy to see?
