Something tight and unfamiliar twisted in Victor’s chest. “When was the last time you ate?”
“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? What was her name?”
Clara paused, lowering her eyes. “Elena Monroe. She sewed dresses at home. She passed away last winter. Pneumonia.”
The name hit Victor like a physical 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 had rejected his life, his success, and his need for control. He had buried his guilt beneath wealth and expansion. And now her children stood at his gates—homeless, hungry, and afraid.
“She said you were her brother,” Clara added carefully, without a hint of blame. “She said you were very important. Very busy. She told us not to bother you.”
