And now her children stood at his gates—hungry, without a home, and afraid.
“She said you were her brother,” Clara added carefully, without blame. “She said you were very important. Very busy. She told us not to bother you.”
Slowly, he reached forward and unlocked the gate.
“Come inside,” he said, his voice unsteady in a way it hadn’t been in years. “Both of you. You don’t need to work. You don’t need to prove anything. You’re safe here.”
Clara stared at him, disbelief and exhaustion battling across her face.
“Sir… I—”
“Victor,” he corrected gently. “Just Victor.”
That first night in the mansion, Clara slept sitting upright, the baby held tightly against her, flinching at every unfamiliar sound. Victor observed from a distance, ashamed at how long it took for her body to ease. Doctors were called. June was examined, fed, and warmed. Clara was given clean clothes, a private room, and something she had gone without for far too long—space.
Days passed.
Then the weeks rolled on.
Clara returned to school, throwing herself into her studies with an intensity fueled by more than hunger alone. Victor watched as she slowly relearned how to smile—tentative at first, as if happiness were something fragile that might vanish the moment she believed in it.
“I should have looked for you,” he said softly. “I should never have stopped.”
Clara met his gaze and paused before answering. “My mother always believed you would.”
Tears traced down Victor’s cheeks—not for show, not dramatic—just real.
From that moment on, he stopped being a powerful man hidden behind iron gates.
Continue reading…
