A dim nightlight bathed the room in pale gold. Sofia—the nanny he had vetted so carefully—was kneeling by the bed, hair disheveled, shadows under her eyes. Her hands gripped Lily’s wrists—not tenderly, but firmly, as though trying to wrest something free.
Lily was wedged into the corner of the bed, back flat against the wall, face ashen, curls plastered to damp cheeks. Her eyes were huge, glassy with dread. Both arms clutched an object to her chest like a shield.
Ethan’s stomach lurched. No adult should ever wrestle with a child.
He crossed the room in two strides, seized Sofia’s wrists, and pulled her hands away. She stumbled backward onto the rug, catching herself, shock widening her eyes.
Ethan planted himself between them, shoulders squared, voice gravel-rough: “What are you doing to my daughter?”
Sofia raised empty palms. “Mr. Hayes—you’re home. Thank God. Please, let me explain.”
Ethan wasn’t listening to explanations. Not while Lily trembled behind him.
He turned, softening instantly. “Lily, baby, it’s Daddy. I’m here. You’re safe.”