The restaurant had been quiet, intimate—just him and your mother. They’d dressed up, laughed over wine and shared plates, enjoying a rare moment away from the chaos of the house. Dinner had been pleasant, the way it always was when they managed to steal a few hours alone.

But when they walked through the front door, the warmth of their evening vanished immediately.

The first sound was soft but insistent: crying.

Mattheo’s brow furrowed, jaw tightening instantly. His instincts flared before his brain could even catch up. “Where is she?” he demanded, his voice low and tense.

Your mother glanced at him, calm but wary. “She’s in the nursery, Theo.”

He didn’t wait. He was already moving through the house with that lethal combination of speed and purpose that only a Riddle could muster. Half a flight of stairs later, he swung open the nursery door—and froze for the barest moment.

You, a tiny six-month-old, were curled in your crib, red-faced, sobbing as if you’d been crying for hours. Your tiny fists waved in the air, your wails filling the room.

Mattheo’s eyes blazed. He bent over the crib, voice harsh but wrapped in panic. “Why didn’t anyone come to you? How long have you been like this?”

Your mother’s hands touched his arm. “The twins were… distracted. They put their headphones in. Augusta was at her friend’s.”

He didn’t even need to ask. He could already tell. His twin children, Lyra and Alaric, fourteen and stubborn, had simply ignored it, wrapped up in whatever magic or music had captured their attention. His daughter, Elowen, eight, had been out and thus wasn’t part of this particular failing.

Mattheo’s fingers clenched the crib railing. “Alone for hours, probably. While the older ones sat on their phones and ignored you.” His voice was quiet, but every word was edged with danger. “Not a single adult went in? Not a single one?”

Your mother shook her head, placing a hand on his shoulder. “They didn’t think it was a big deal…”

“Not a big deal?” His voice rose slightly, sharp and furious. “She’s six months old! She can’t even tell us what hurts! And we’re supposed to rely on headphones and excuses?” He bent closer, cooing low and protective, letting the edge of anger melt into gentle concern. “You poor little thing. Look at you. Look at my baby.”

He lifted you from the crib carefully, holding you close, rocking slightly. Your cries began to quiet under the sound of his voice, the warmth of his chest, the slow rhythm of his heartbeat. He inhaled your scent, a mixture of milk, baby powder, and the faint hint of magic.

He straightened, holding you against him, and his eyes burned with controlled fury. “Lyra, Alaric…heads out of their own ears? Ignoring their baby sister? I will fix this. When they come back, we’re having a conversation about priorities. About family. About responsibility.”

Your mother reached for him, brushing a strand of his dark hair back from his forehead. “They didn’t mean to—”

“They should have known better,” he interrupted, voice softer now as he kissed the top of your head. “This isn’t about intent. This is about you. My baby. My responsibility.”

You had stopped crying entirely now, lulled into drowsy comfort by the strength and attention of your father. Your tiny hand gripped his finger, and his gaze softened slightly as he whispered, “Never again, little one. Never again.”

For the rest of the evening, Mattheo refused to let you out of his arms, cradling you like the most precious thing in the world, while the rest of the house felt the full weight of his protective presence. Lyra and Alaric would hear about this later. Oh, they would hear about it.

Because nothing, absolutely nothing, came before his family.