Irritation flickered through him. This was exactly the kind of situation his security measures were meant to prevent.
Then his gaze shifted.
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—same curve, 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 it could erase everything that had broken between them.
She disappeared from his life almost twenty years ago.
And now, standing at his gates, was a girl with the 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 stillness of the morning before he could soften it.
“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 a focus so intense it made the guards uneasy. Her eyes were sharp and wary, her expression guarded. Fear was there—but so was determination. This wasn’t an act. It was endurance, refined by necessity.
He lifted his hand slightly, signaling security to step back.
“Get food,” he said under his breath. “And water.”
Moments later, a tray appeared at the gate—bread, soup, fruit. Victor watched as Clara accepted it, her hands shaking.
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