Just below the girl’s jaw, half-hidden by her collar, was a pale, crescent-shaped mark.
Victor froze.
The breath caught in his throat.
He knew that mark.
He had known it all his life.
His younger sister bore the same one—same curve, same spot. As children, she used to laugh about it, calling it a little moon that followed her everywhere. Years later, when their family fractured under the weight of anger and loss, she began hiding it beneath scarves, as though covering it could erase everything that had broken between them.
She disappeared from his life almost twenty years ago.
And now, standing at his gates, was a girl with the very same mark—one that no amount of money, power, or preparation could explain away.
“Who are you?” Victor asked, the edge in his voice slicing through the stillness of the morning before he could soften it.
The girl startled. She instinctively shifted, tightening the cloth that secured the baby, as though preparing to be turned away or escorted off the property. Her gaze flicked toward the guards, then cautiously returned to Victor.
“My name is Clara Monroe,” she said quietly. “I’m not here for money. I just… I need a job. Any kind of work. My sister is hungry.”
Victor observed her with a focus so intense it made the guards uneasy. Her eyes were sharp and wary, her expression guarded. Fear was there—but so was determination. This wasn’t an act. It was endurance, refined by necessity.
He lifted his hand slightly, signaling security to step back.
“Get food,” he said under his breath. “And water.”
Moments later, a tray appeared at the gate—bread, soup, fruit. Victor watched as Clara accepted it, her hands shaking.
She didn’t eat.
Instead, she broke the bread into small pieces, feeding the baby first whenever the child stirred. Only after the infant settled did Clara take a few careful sips of soup, slow and measured, as if afraid it might vanish.
Something tight and unfamiliar twisted in Victor’s chest.
“When was the last time you ate?” he asked.
“Yesterday morning,” Clara answered simply. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.”
No child should ever be forced to say those words.
“What’s your sister’s name?” Victor asked.
“June,” she replied, her voice softening immediately. “She’s eight months old.”
Victor swallowed hard.
“And your mother?” he asked next. “What was her name?”
Clara paused, lowering her eyes. “Elena Monroe. She sewed dresses at home. She passed away last winter. Pneumonia.”
Victor’s heart slammed against his ribs.
Elena.
The name hit him like a blow.
This wasn’t chance.
“Did your mother have a mark like yours?” he asked quietly.
Clara nodded. “In the same place. She always hid it. Said people stared.”
Victor shut his eyes.
For years, he had convinced himself his sister chose to vanish—that she rejected his life, his success, his need to control everything. He had buried the guilt beneath wealth and expansion.
And now her children stood at his gates—hungry, without a home, and afraid.
“She said you were her brother,” Clara added carefully, without blame. “She said you were very important. Very busy. She told us not to bother you.”
The words cut deeper than any accusation Victor had ever faced.
Slowly, he reached forward and unlocked the gate.
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