Mama, help me!”
The desperate cry echoed inside the stifling black Lexus. Lily Grant’s tiny fists weakly pounded against the tinted glass as she gasped for air, the blazing sun turning the car into an oven.
Sweat trickled down her temples, soaking the collar of her pale pink dress. Each breath came shorter; her trembling lips barely formed words.
Just moments earlier, her stepmother, Vanessa, had stepped out of the car. Her red heels clicked sharply against the marble driveway as she pressed the remote, locking the doors with a decisive click.
She turned once, her cold gaze meeting Lily’s terrified eyes—then walked away with a faint, chilling smile. To a passerby, it might have looked like carelessness.
But Lily knew better. Vanessa had done it on purpose.
On the porch, Maria, the housekeeper, carried a basket of folded linens when she thought she heard something—perhaps the wind, or a distant cry.
Then she froze.
Two small hands pressed against the car window. A flushed face. Wide eyes. A mouth gasping for air.
“Miss Lily!” Maria screamed, dropping the basket and sprinting toward the car. She yanked the handle. Locked. The heat seared her palms through the glass. Panic surged.
“Hold on, sweetheart! I’ll get you out!”
She beat her fists against the window until her knuckles split open.
“Madam! The keys! Hurry!” she shouted toward the mansion. No answer—only Lily’s muffled sobs from inside.
The little girl was fading, her tiny body slumped against the seat, breaths shallow and uneven.
Then came the crunch of tires on gravel. A silver Audi pulled into the driveway. Thomas Grant stepped out, sharply dressed in a gray suit, briefcase in hand.
The sight before him froze him in place—Maria pounding at the glass, Lily barely conscious inside.
“What on earth is happening?!” he shouted, rushing forward.
“She’s locked in! She can’t breathe!” Maria cried, her bleeding hands trembling.