The Man With the Red Velvet Box
Standing on my porch was an elderly man in a gray suit. His silver hair was neatly combed. His eyes were kind. In his hands was a small red velvet box.
The moment I saw him, my knees nearly gave out.
Because I knew exactly who he was.
“Mr. Whitmore?” I whispered.
He smiled. “Hello, Daniel.”
My throat tightened.
Arthur Whitmore. The billionaire founder of Whitmore Medical Technologies. One of the most respected philanthropists in the country. A man I’d met only once, twelve years earlier, for less than five minutes.
“Oh no,” I whispered, turning toward the girls. “Oh no, girls. Why did you do this to me?”
Both of them were crying now.
The old man stepped forward.
“May I come in?”
I nodded numbly.
