“Daddy!” The scream came from a little girl I'd never met, racing across a Manhattan orphanage while reporters and cameras surrounded me. Five years after I'd walked away from a pregnant woman in Chicago, one look into that child's tear-filled eyes made my entire body go cold, because somehow, before anyone said a word, I knew exactly who she was.

The flashbulbs around us continued to fire in a silent, rhythmic strobe, capturing a moment whose true devastation nobody in the press corps could possibly understand. To the cameras, it looked like a heartwarming moment of accidental charity—a billionaire philanthropist moved to tears by an orphan. To me, it was an execution.

I remained frozen on the cold brick pavers, my hands hovering gingerly around Maya’s small shoulders as if I were afraid my touch might shatter her into dust.

“Mr. Rivers?” The orphanage director stepped forward, her professional smile replaced by genuine confusion as she sensed the sudden, crushing shift in the atmosphere. “Is everything alright? Do you know this little girl?”

The question hung in the air like a live wire.

Every reporter in the courtyard had stopped talking. Microphones were angled downward, capturing the heavy, ragged sound of my breathing. Marcus, my assistant, pushed his way through the perimeter security detail, his face tight with corporate alarm.

“Mr. Rivers, we have a tight schedule,” Marcus said, placing a polite but firm hand on my shoulder. “The afternoon acquisition meeting at the Midtown office requires your presence by—”

“Shut up, Marcus,” I said.

The words weren't loud. They didn't carry the roar of a tyrant, but the absolute, chilling flatness in my tone made Marcus pull his hand back as if he’d touched a hot iron. In two years of service, Marcus had never heard me use that tone.

I turned my full attention back to the little girl. Maya was still clutching my jacket, her small frame shuddering with residual sobs.

“Maya,” I murmured, my voice cracking on her name. I reached out, my trembling fingers gently brushing a stray lock of dark brown hair away from her damp forehead. “Where is... where is your mommy?”

Maya sniffled, looking up at me with those devastatingly familiar amber-flecked eyes.

“Mommy is sleeping,” she whispered simply.

My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I thought my sternum might fracture. “Sleeping? Where, sweetie? Is she inside?”

Before Maya could answer, the orphanage worker—the woman in the faded blue cardigan whose name tag read Mrs. Gable—stepped forward, her eyes swimming with unshed tears. She knelt down beside us, placing a trembling hand on Maya’s shoulder.

“Mr. Rivers... can we step inside my office?” Mrs. Gable’s voice was barely a breath. “Away from the cameras.”

I didn't answer with words. I scooped Maya up into my arms—an awkward, unpracticed motion that felt entirely foreign yet terrifyingly natural—and stood up. The little girl instinctively wrapped her arms around my neck, resting her head against my shoulder just as she had no doubt practiced in her imagination a thousand times.

“Marcus,” I commanded, walking past my stunned assistant without breaking stride. “Clear the courtyard. Nobody speaks to the press. Nobody leaves.”