Chapter 4 - A Warm Room and Cold Truths
Alexander carried Maya out of the garden, past the frozen security guards, past the flashing camera lights of the reporters who had rushed to the gates, and straight into the back seat of his sleek, black armored limousine.
His driver, an older, broad-shouldered man named Marcus who had been with Alexander for a decade, took one look in the rearview mirror and understood everything. He immediately turned up the heat in the back of the car and grabbed a soft, wool blanket from the trunk compartment.
"Where to, boss?" Marcus asked quietly.
"Home, Marcus. And call Dr. Hayes. Tell her to meet us at the penthouse immediately."
Maya sat on the soft leather seat, feeling utterly lost. The limousine was bigger than the small room her mother used to rent. The air was warm, and it smelled like peppermint and leather. She huddled inside Alexander's jacket, her large eyes darting from the glowing dashboard lights to the young man sitting across from her.
Alexander reached into a small refrigerator built into the side panel and pulled out a bottle of fresh water and a plate of organic sliced strawberries and warm croissants meant for his morning travel.
He placed the plate gently on the small table between them. "Here. Eat slowly, Maya. Don't rush."
Maya looked at the strawberries, then up at Alexander, as if waiting to be yelled at.
"Go on," he encouraged, giving her a warm smile. "It's all yours."
She didn't use the fork. She grabbed a strawberry with her small fingers and took a bite. The sweetness burst in her mouth, and a tiny gasp escaped her lips. She began to eat hungrily, but true to Alexander's instruction, she tried her best to be polite, swallowing carefully before taking another bite.
"Where are your parents, little one?" Alexander asked softly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
Maya stopped chewing, her eyes dropping to her bare feet. "Mommy went to sleep," she whispered. "In the small room. Then the men took her away in a black bag. The landlord said she wasn't coming back, and he locked the door."
Alexander felt his teeth clench tightly. "And your dad?"
"I don't have a dad," she said simply. "Mommy said he went to the stars before I was born."
"How long have you been alone?"
"I don't know," Maya said, shaking her head. "It was warm when Mommy slept. Then it got cold. Then it got warm again."
Months. She had been surviving on the streets for nearly three or four months. A four-year-old child.
Alexander looked out the tinted window as the city lights blurred past. He thought of his own life—his millions, his penthouses, his endless board meetings, his endless acquisition of wealth that ultimately meant nothing. He had built an empire to escape the grief of losing his own parents in a plane crash when he was eighteen, throwing himself into work until he had no room left for feelings.
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Yet, holding this small, fragile girl in his car, he realized that all his money was useless if it couldn't save a child standing right outside his door.
"You're not going back to the street, Maya," Alexander said, his voice firm, filled with a promise that resonated deep in his chest. "Never again."
