Until he heard something unfamiliar—the soft scrape of a spoon against porcelain.
He followed the sound to the kitchen.
And froze.
There was Maria, standing in the corner, eyes fixed on a small, filthy boy who sat at the kitchen table, devouring food from one of the mansion’s fine china bowls. James’s briefcase nearly slipped from his hand.
Maria turned, startled. Her face went pale.
“Sir—I… I can explain.”
James raised a hand, stopping her.
He didn’t speak at first.
He simply looked—at the child’s trembling hands, his dirt-streaked face, the joy on his face as he ate.
