Victor Rowan was just about to get into his sleek black sedan when a timid voice stopped him at the iron gates of his sprawling northern California estate.
“Sir… are you looking for a maid? I can clean, wash clothes, cook—anything. Please… my baby sister hasn’t eaten since yesterday.”
Security was already shifting into position, trained to shut down scenes like this before they escalated. Victor had encountered countless pleas over the decades—carefully practiced stories, desperate hands, promises made out of need. He had learned, early and well, how to keep walking. In his world, pausing meant vulnerability.
Normally, he wouldn’t have turned around.
But this voice was different.
It wasn’t demanding. It wasn’t dramatic. It sounded fragile—like it might collapse if ignored.
He stopped and faced the gate.
A young girl stood there, barely more than a teenager, her frame alarmingly thin beneath an oversized jacket that swallowed her shoulders. Her shoes were scuffed with dirt, her hair hastily tied back, loose strands framing a face marked by exhaustion far beyond her years.
A baby was secured to her back.
Not in anything new or warm—just an old, worn blanket, carefully tied. The infant looked quiet, too quiet. Victor noticed the shallow rise of the tiny chest, the unsettling stillness.
Irritation flickered through him. This was exactly the kind of situation his security measures were meant to prevent.
Then his gaze shifted.
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