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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.
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.
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.
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.
