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—the same curve in the exact 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 the mark could erase the bond that had broken between them.
She had disappeared from his life nearly twenty years ago. And now, standing at his gates, was a girl with that 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 morning stillness before he could soften it.
The girl startled. She instinctively shifted, tightening the cloth that secured the baby as if preparing to be turned away or escorted off the property. Her gaze flicked toward the guards before cautiously returning 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 an intensity so sharp it made the guards uneasy. Her eyes were wary, her expression guarded. Fear was there, but so was a refined determination. This wasn’t an act; it was endurance. He lifted his hand slightly, signaling his security to step back.
“Get food,” he said under his breath. “And water.”
Moments later, a tray appeared at the gate with bread, soup, and 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 measured sips of soup, drinking slowly as if afraid the meal might vanish.
