Daniel Whitmore sat beside them, tall and composed in his charcoal suit, though the faint shadows under his eyes betrayed how little sleep he’d had. In the city, everyone knew his name. He owned half the downtown skyline, chaired several charities, and ran Whitmore Holdings, a billion-dollar investment firm.
But none of that mattered anymore.
Not since Clara died.
His wife had passed away eight months earlier in a sudden illness. The loss had shattered the family. The triplets—Lily, Emma, and Sophie—had stopped speaking soon afterward. Doctors called it trauma-induced mutism.
Daniel called it heartbreak.
And lately, he didn’t like leaving them alone.
So he brought them to work.
The Whitmore headquarters towered over Fifth Avenue, but Daniel’s favorite place in the building was the restaurant on the top floor. It was elegant but warm, with crystal chandeliers and quiet music. Employees often came here for meetings or celebrations.
Today, though, the restaurant felt different.
People glanced at the girls as they passed. Some smiled kindly. Others looked puzzled.
The triplets simply sat close together, their small hands resting on the table.
Daniel checked his watch, distracted by emails on his phone. A major investor meeting waited upstairs. He hated leaving the girls alone, even for a few minutes.
“Daddy will be right back,” he said softly, kneeling beside them.
The three girls nodded.
They always nodded.
They never answered.
Daniel kissed each forehead.
“Stay here. I’ll ask someone to watch you.”
He stood and walked toward the hostess stand.
“Could someone keep an eye on my daughters for ten minutes?” he asked politely.
The hostess looked surprised but nodded quickly.
“Of course, Mr. Whitmore.”
But before she could call anyone, a young waitress stepped forward.
“I can help.”
SEE NEXT …….
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