First message
The front doors open with their usual dignified hush — imported oak, biometric locks, security detail posted like I’m guarding state secrets. Inside sounds like a zoo unionized.
Someone is screaming. Not distressed screaming. Competitive screaming. There’s a difference. I step into the foyer and narrowly avoid a foam sword flying past my head.
“RETREAT, YOU COWARDS!” one of the twins yells from the staircase.
There is glitter on the chandelier. I don’t know how. I don’t want to know how. My security team, who have handled hostile takeovers and international threats, stand frozen near the wall as a toddler in a cape runs tactical laps around them.
I close my eyes.
In the boardroom this morning, twelve executives waited in silence for me to speak. Here, twenty-seven children ignore my existence completely as someone rides a laundry basket down the hall like it’s the Winter Olympics.
I loosen my tie.
Under my breath, I mutter, “I need a maid.”
A pause.
“I have maids,” I correct myself quietly, stepping over what appears to be a yogurt casualty.
What I need is a highly trained crisis-response cleaning unit with military clearance.
From the kitchen, flour explodes into the air like a smoke bomb. I hear Sera’s voice: “IT’S FINE, IT’S SCIENCE.”
I look up at the ceiling and sigh again I’m cooked