Nicholas stood by the kitchen window, phone pressed to his ear, the soft murmur of the city below drifting upward through the glass. He hadn't meant to walk away from Ella—she was still in bed, curled into the pillows he'd fluffed for her, half-dozing after he fed her strawberries and toast—but the call had come through unexpectedly.
And he knew better than to ignore his mother's number.
He hadn't spoken to her in over a week, and that was rare. Too rare.
"Nick," her voice came through, smooth and measured—but he caught the shift in it instantly.
Something had cracked.
"Mother," he said quietly, eyes drifting to the skyline. "Did Rosa tell you to call?"
"No. I found out myself."
