Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
evangeline
I haven't slept in thirty-six hours, and my body feels like it's running on nothing but grief and coffee. The foster home's guest room is small and cramped, but I couldn't leave the children. Not after what happened. Not when they keep asking where their parents are with those wide, confused eyes.
I'm sitting on the floor of the living room, sixteen-year-old Mason beside me as we go through funeral home brochures.
His jaw is set in that stubborn way that reminds me so much of Marcus it makes my chest ache.
The younger kids are scattered around us, some coloring, others just staring at nothing.
"This one looks nice," I say softly, pointing to a picture of a chapel with stained glass windows. My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.
Mason shrugs. "Mom would have wanted something simple. She hated fancy stuff."
He's right. Calla always preferred backyard barbecues to fancy restaurants, jeans to cocktail dresses. She was so different from me in that way. While I was drowning in charity galas and society events with Ethan, she was building a real life with Marcus and their children.
Guilt claws at my throat. When was the last time I really talked to her? Really spent time with her without checking my phone or making excuses to leave early?
Three weeks ago at Sunday dinner. She'd seemed distracted; kept checking her phone and jumping at every little noise. When I asked if everything was okay, she just smiled and said work had been stressful.
Work. Marcus was an accountant at a small firm downtown. What kind of stress could he have had that would lead to... this?
"Aunt Evie?" Eight-year-old Sophie crawls into my lap, her small body warm against mine. "When are Mama and Daddy coming back?"
The question hits me like a physical blow. I've been dreading it all morning, hoping someone else would field it. But it's just me and the kids right now. Mrs. Lyndsay went to the store, and Ethan...
Ethan went back to his office. He said he had important calls to make.
"Oh, sweetheart," I whisper, pulling Sophie closer. "Remember what we talked about? Mama and Daddy... they can't come back. But you're going to be okay. We're going to take care of you."
"All of us?" she asks, looking around at her siblings.
"All of you," I promise, even though I have no idea how I'm going to make that work.
My apartment is a one-bedroom in the financial district.
Ethan's place isn't much bigger. We'd talked about getting a house after the wedding, but that was supposed to be for us.
For the quiet, orderly life he'd planned out for us.
Not for five grieving children who need stability and love and so much more than I know how to give.
"I miss them," Sophie whispers against my shoulder.
"I know, baby. I miss them too."
The memory of that last dinner with Calla hits me again. She'd barely touched her food; kept glancing toward the windows like she expected someone to be watching. When four-year-old Lily dropped her sippy cup, Calla jumped like a gunshot had gone off.
"Marcus has been working late a lot," she'd said when I pressed her about it. "New client. High maintenance."
But there had been something in her eyes. Fear, maybe, or worry—certainly something that went deeper than work stress.
Why didn't I push harder? Why didn't I insist she tell me what was really wrong?
"Aunt Evie, you're squeezing too tight," Sophie says, and I realize my arms have tightened around her.
"Sorry, sweetheart." I loosen my grip, forcing my breathing to steady. The children need me to be strong right now. I can fall apart later, when they're asleep and can't see me break.
Thirteen-year-old Emma looks up from her coloring book. "Are we going to live together forever now?"
The question hangs in the air, heavy with implications. Forever. Such a big word for something I have no idea how to navigate.
"We're going to figure it out," I tell her. "All of us together."
"But where?" ten-year-old Jake asks. "Your apartment is tiny."
Out of the mouths of babes. Jake's right. My place couldn't fit three people comfortably, let alone six. And Ethan's penthouse... The thought of trying to raise five children in his sterile, white-on-white showplace makes me want to laugh. Or cry.
Maybe both.
The front door opens, and my heart does something stupid and painful when Hades walks in. He's changed out of his bloodstained clothes from yesterday and showered, but there are dark circles under his eyes that tell me he slept about as much as I did.
Which is to say, not at all.
"How are we doing today?" he asks, his voice gentler than I've ever heard it. He drops to his knees beside us, and suddenly the room feels smaller. Warmer.
"Uncle Hades!" Four-year-old Lily launches herself at him, and he catches her easily, lifting her up into those strong arms.
My breath catches in my throat. There's something about seeing him with the children that does things to me I shouldn't be feeling. Not now. Not when we're planning my brother's funeral and trying to figure out how to put these kids' lives back together.
I shuffle backward, instinctively creating distance. It’s too much. He’s too much.
This isn’t the time. I’m grieving. I’m confused. I’m still engaged, for God’s sake.
But when he glances over and meets my eyes, something tightens low in my stomach, and all the distance in the world doesn’t help.
Heat pools low in my belly, inappropriate and unwelcome. My pulse quickens, and I have to focus on breathing normally. This is grief, I tell myself; trauma making me cling to anything that feels safe and solid.
But I know that's a lie. This pull between us has been there for years, simmering beneath every family gathering, every polite conversation, every careful distance we've maintained.
Calla used to tell me stories about their childhood, about how Hades protected her from their father's rages even when he was just a kid himself. How he'd take beatings meant for her and never complain. How he put himself through hell to make sure she had a chance at something better.
"Any word from the detective?" I ask, trying to focus on practical matters instead of the way his presence makes the chaos in my head quiet down.
"They're releasing the scene tomorrow. We can start planning the service." His dark eyes meet mine, and for a moment I feel like he can see straight through me; see the guilt and the fear—and the inappropriate heat that curls through my body every time he's near.
"I've been looking at funeral homes," I say, gesturing to the brochures scattered around us.
Hades glances at them, then at Mason. "What do you think, man? You knew your parents better than anyone."
Mason's shoulders straighten a little at being consulted like an adult. "Mom always said she wanted to be cremated. She said it was a waste of money to put a fancy box in the ground when that money could go to us kids instead."
"Smart woman," Hades says. "We'll do exactly what she wanted."
The simple way he says it, like there's no question that we'll honor Calla's wishes, makes something tight in my chest loosen. With Ethan, everything is a negotiation, a cost-benefit analysis. With Hades, it's just... right.
"Uncle Hades," Lily says from her perch in his arms. "Are you going to live with us now?"
The question hangs in the air, heavy with implications. I should say something. I should explain that nothing's been decided yet, that it's complicated.
Instead, I find myself holding my breath, waiting for his answer. My skin feels too tight, hyperaware of every shift in his posture, every flicker of expression across his face.
"We're still figuring that out, sweetheart," he says carefully, his eyes finding mine again. "But no matter what, you're not going to be alone. You've got me and Aunt Evie, and we're going to make sure you're taken care of."
"Together?" Lily asks, the word carrying so much weight.
"Together," he confirms, and something warm and dangerous unfurls in my chest.
The intensity of his gaze makes my pulse skip. For just a moment, I let myself imagine what that might look like; Hades and me raising these children together, sharing morning coffee and bedtime stories, as well as all the small intimacies that come with building a life together.
The fantasy is so vivid, so appealing, that it scares me.
"Aunt Evie's getting married," Emma says suddenly, her voice matter-of-fact. "To the mean man."
The words hit like cold water. Emma's always been perceptive, but hearing her call Ethan "the mean man" so casually makes my stomach clench.
"Emma—" I start, but she's not done.
"He doesn't like us," she continues, still coloring but speaking with the brutal honesty only children possess. "He told Mama and Daddy that kids should be seen and not heard."
When did he say that? And why didn't Marcus or Calla tell me?
Hades' jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "What else did he say?"
"That we were too loud and messy for civilized people." Emma looks up from her coloring book, her young face serious. "Mama got really mad."
Of course she did. Calla was fierce when it came to protecting her children. She would have torn Ethan apart for saying something like that.
And I never knew it happened.
Guilt crashes over me again, sharper this time. How many signs did I miss? How many times did my family try to tell me that the man I'm supposed to marry isn't who I think he is?
"You're not too loud or too messy," Hades says firmly, his voice carrying the kind of authority that makes children believe what the speaker is claiming. "You're exactly who you're supposed to be."
Emma beams at him, and something in my chest cracks open. This is what the children need. Not someone who sees them as obstacles to overcome, but someone who sees them as whole people worthy of love and protection.