Spending an afternoon alone with Lily had become rare. She skipped through Lincoln Park beside me, talking nonstop about caramel ice cream and the scruffy puppy she'd already decided belonged in our house.

The iron gates of the Blackwell estate swung open automatically, the heavy black bars sliding back to welcome our convoy. Our sprawling manor sat on the edge of the city, surrounded by towering stone walls and acres of manicured gardens—a fortress designed to keep the dangerous world at bay. Yet tonight, the massive hearth in the grand foyer felt less like a defense mechanism and more like a beacon.

As the car glided to a halt in front of the grand double doors, Victor stepped out and opened my door. I gently cradled Emma in my arms, careful not to wake her. Her breathing was shallow, rhythmic puffs of air against my collarbone. Lily hopped out behind us, chattering excitedly to Mrs. Gable, our longtime head housekeeper, who had rushed out onto the steps the moment she heard the crunch of tires on gravel.

"Good heavens, Mr. Blackwell," Mrs. Gable gasped, her hands flying to her mouth as her eyes fell upon the sleeping child in my arms. The resemblance hit her just as hard as it had hit me in the park; she stumbled back a step, clutching her apron. "Is that... sweet Jesus in heaven, does she look like..."

"She does, Mrs. Gable," I interrupted quietly, stepping past her into the warmth of the foyer. "Prepare the guest suite on the second floor, directly next to Lily's room. Warm bath, dry clothes, and have Dr. Vance report here immediately."

"Right away, sir," Mrs. Gable said, her professional composure snapping back into place, though her eyes remained bright with unshed tears. She hurried off down the corridor, her heels clicking against the marble floor.

I carried Emma upstairs, navigating the sweeping staircase that I had walked a thousand times in solitude. For years, this house had felt like a mausoleum—a monument to the wife I had lost and the quiet life I had built out of ambition and cold calculation. Now, the corridor buzzed with a strange, electric warmth.

When we reached the suite, Mrs. Gable had already turned down the crisp white sheets of a large four-poster bed. I laid Emma down gently. Even in sleep, her fingers remained tightly coiled around the frayed ear of her stuffed bear. I pried her tiny fingers loose with infinite care, setting the bear on the nightstand before pulling the duvet up to her chin.

Dr. Vance arrived less than twenty minutes later, his medical bag swinging in his hand. He was a trusted family physician who had treated both Grace and Lily, bound to absolute secrecy by both contract and loyalty. He examined Emma thoroughly while Lily and I waited in the adjoining sitting room, watching through the open double doors.

After what felt like hours, Dr. Vance stepped out, wiping his stethoscope with an antiseptic wipe. His expression was grim.

"Well?" I demanded, standing up from the leather armchair.

"Physically, she's malnourished, Mr. Blackwell," Dr. Vance reported in a low, measured tone. "She's severely dehydrated, shows signs of chronic neglect over several months, and has a mild fever likely brought on by exhaustion and exposure. But remarkably, there are no signs of physical abuse. Just... profound emptiness. Whoever was supposed to be looking after her simply wasn't paying attention."

My fists clenched at my sides. "Will she recover?"

"With proper nutrition, hydration, and rest? Absolutely children are resilient," Dr. Vance reassured me, placing a hand on my arm. "I've administered a vitamin drip and some mild antipyretics for the fever. She'll sleep through the night. But Marcus... we need to talk about her age."

I looked toward the bedroom door, where Mrs. Gable was sitting quietly in a chair beside Emma's bed, keeping vigil. "How old is she?"

"Based on dental development and bone structure," Dr. Vance said softly, "she is five years old. Exactly five years and two months."