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.

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.