A billionaire arrived home at lunchtime three hours earlier than usual. The keys slipped from Alejandro de la Vega’s hand and clattered onto the marble floor—yet inside the mansion, no one reacted. He stood at the dining room threshold, frozen, blood running cold and hot at the same time.

Five years after his wife Lucía’s funeral, the imported mahogany table had been untouched—until now.

Elena, the young housemaid in a crisp blue-and-white uniform, wasn’t polishing silver or dusting. She was sitting at the table, calmly feeding four identical little boys—around four years old—wearing patched, makeshift clothing.

Their eyes tracked her spoon like it was the most precious thing in the world. The meal wasn’t luxury—just simple yellow rice—yet the boys stared at it as if it were gold.

Elena murmured softly, “Open wide, my little birds.”
Then, gently: “Eat slowly. Today there’s enough for everyone.”

She was wearing bright yellow cleaning gloves—hands meant for scrubbing floors—yet she used them with a tenderness so maternal it made Alejandro’s throat tighten.

Alejandro should have stormed in, demanded answers, thrown everyone out.
Instead, he couldn’t move.

The boys’ profiles—one turning to laugh, lamp light catching his face—hit Alejandro like a time-warped mirror. The nose. The smile. The expression. The familiarity was terrifying.

The mansion was a fortress. No one entered without permission. Yet here were four children eating at his table like hidden royalty—alive, real, laughing softly in a house that had been silent for years.