Vincent’s POV
The steak had barely touched the table before chaos began.
Three pairs of eyes blinked up at me, forks clenched in small fists, knives skidding uselessly against meat far too tough for them.
Elijah, solemn as always, pressed down harder, his jaw tight, the blade squeaking across the plate without leaving so much as a mark. Caleb hunched close, curls nearly dipping into the sauce, frowning at his steak as if he could puzzle it apart by sheer will. And Myra—my little star—stabbed hers again and again, cheeks puffed, a tiny huff escaping each time the stubborn slice refused to break.
“Daddy, it won’t cut,” she complained, her lips jutting into a pout.
For a moment, I just watched them—three determined children waging war with dinner as if the battle might be won through per
