She didn’t eat.
Instead, she broke the bread into small pieces, feeding the baby first whenever the child stirred. Only after the infant settled did Clara take a few careful sips of soup, slow and measured, as if afraid it might vanish.
“When was the last time you ate?” he asked.
“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?” he asked next. “What was her name?”
Clara paused, lowering her eyes. “Elena Monroe. She sewed dresses at home. She passed away last winter. Pneumonia.”
Elena.
The name hit him like a 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 rejected his life, his success, his need to control everything. He had buried the guilt beneath wealth and expansion.
