THAT evening, Amelia sat in the nursery, her back pressed against the rocking chair as her mother gently cradled one of the twins against her shoulder. The little boy still fought sleep, his tiny fists opening and closing as though he had the world to conquer before giving in to rest.
Mrs. Harlow hummed softly, rocking him with practiced ease. Her eyes flicked toward her daughter, who was staring blankly at the patterned rug, lost in thought.
“You have been quiet since you got back,” Mrs. Harlow said gently. “Something happened at the shop today?”
Amelia’s lips parted, but she hesitated. Then, with a sigh, she rubbed her temples.
“Adrian came.”
Her mother raised a brow, though she didn’t stop rocking the child.
“To the boutique?”
“Yes.” Amelia shifted uncomfortably, anger flashing
