The thought of the boys being hounded by photographers made my stomach turn.

They were so sensitive, especially Owen, who still cried when the front door slammed too hard.

“We can’t let that happen,” I said.

“No,” Daniel agreed.

“We can’t.”

He looked at the small black screen of his phone, which had lit up with a silent text message.

“I have spent my entire life building Whitmore Enterprises,” he said softly.

“I thought it was the most important thing I had left after Sarah died.”

“I thought keeping the company strong was how I honored her memory.”

He looked up at me, his eyes dark and steady.

“But I was wrong.”

“My family is what matters.”

“You and the boys.”

He stood up and began to pace the narrow space between my bed and the wall.

“I need to call Ruth,” he said.

“She needs to know what is coming.”

He picked up his phone and dialed the number for the estate.

He put it on speaker, and after two rings, Ruth’s crisp, steady voice filled the room.

“Mr. Whitmore,” Ruth said.

“Is Claire alright?”