Blake Harrington had survived market crashes, hostile boardrooms, and billion-dollar failures without losing his composure.

But outside Chicago O’Hare, when he saw three little boys clinging to Emma’s coat, all the confidence drained from his face.

Oliver noticed him first.

“Mom,” the five-year-old whispered, “who is that man?”

Blake flinched. Before Emma could answer, Ethan tilted his head and said, “He looks like us.”

Noah pressed closer to her leg.

Blake stepped forward, staring from one child to the next. His face shifted between shock, anger, fear, and something far more painful.

“Emma,” he breathed, “tell me they’re not…”

She lifted her chin. “Not what?”

“How old are they?”

Oliver answered proudly, “We’re five. I was born seven minutes first.”

Blake closed his eyes.

Five years. The math was clear.