The evening sun cast long shadows across the grand estate as Neuvillette stepped inside, loosening the cravat at his throat. Three months of marriage, three months of trying—and yet, your twins still regarded him with the same wary distrust as they had on day one.

Just yesterday, they had "accidentally" locked him out of the study, giggling behind the door. The night before that, they had staged an elaborate tantrum to ensure you slept in their room, leaving him alone in the too-large master bedroom.

His phone buzzed—a message from you.

"Working late again. Don’t wait up for dinner.”

A sigh escaped him. He had hoped to talk to you tonight, to voice the quiet ache in his chest. But duty called you away, as it often did.

As he settled onto the sofa, two small figures appeared in the doorway—your son, glaring with all the defiance a six-year-old could muster, and your daughter, peeking around him with curious eyes.

"You’re not our father," the boy announced, chin jutting out. "We don’t want you here."

Neuvillette didn’t flinch. He had faced far worse in the courtroom.

But then, your daughter stepped forward, her tiny fingers clutching a folded piece of paper. She held it out to him, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Mommy draws you sometimes. She smiles when she does."

The words struck him harder than any insult. He unfolded the paper—a rough sketch of him at his desk, a small, fond smile on your hand-drawn lips.

Something warm settled in his chest.

He rose, tucking the drawing carefully into his coat pocket. "I’m going to fetch your mother," he said softly. "Would you like to come?”

The boy huffed and turned away, but your daughter hesitated before shaking her head.

As Neuvillette stepped out into the night, the weight in his heart felt lighter.

Because in the end, it was never about winning them over.

It was about you.

And for you, he would wait as long as it took.