The gates were iron lace, black and gold, towering twenty feet into the air. They swung open silently, admitting the convoy into a world that didn't obey the laws of physics Estelle knew.

Here, leaves didn't seem to fall. Dirt didn't exist.

The driveway was two miles long. Estelle counted the seconds. It took five minutes just to get from the gate to the front door.

When the car finally stopped, it was in front of a fountain. A marble statue of a woman pouring water stood in the center. The water was crystal clear.

"Come on," Eleanor said, opening the door.

Estelle stepped out. Her sneakers looked like insults against the paving stones.

A double line of people stood on the steps. Maids in black and white uniforms. Men in suits. They stood rigid, hands clasped behind their backs.

"Welcome home, Miss Estelle," a man at the front said.

He was older, with silver hair and a tuxedo that fit him perfectly. Winston. The butler.

Estelle panicked. She didn't know what to do. In the foster homes, when adults lined up like this, it meant inspection. It meant you stood still and hoped they didn't find lice.

She bowed. A clumsy, jerky motion. "I... I'm clean. I mean, I will be. I promise."

A ripple of shock went through the line of staff. A maid near the back covered her mouth.

Winston's face softened. His professional mask slipped, revealing deep, aching pity. He stepped forward, ignoring protocol, and offered her a hand.

"You are perfect, Miss," he said gently.

Just then, the second SUV pulled up. The back opened.

Buster jumped out.

The staff gasped and scattered. Two maids shrieked. The dog was a scarred, muscular brute in a world of porcelain and silk. He let out a low, rumbling bark, confused by the smells.

"Buster!" Estelle cried.

She broke away from Winston and ran to the dog. She dropped to her knees on the driveway, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"It's okay, boy. Shhh."

Under her hands, the dog went limp. He sat down, leaning his heavy weight against her thigh. He looked at the terrified servants and yawned.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

A sound came from the top of the stairs. Heavy. Rhythm.

The massive front doors opened.

An old man stepped out. He leaned on a cane with a gold handle shaped like a lion's head. He wore a three-piece suit, even though he was in his own home. His white hair was swept back, revealing a face that was severe, lined with power and age.

Alistair Bridges. The patriarch.

The air seemed to get thinner. Even Arthur straightened his spine.

Alistair stood at the top of the stairs, looking down. His eyes were like lasers. They swept over the cars, the staff, his son, and finally landed on the dirty girl kneeling on the pavement with a fighting dog.

Estelle felt the weight of his gaze. It was heavy, like a stone.

She knew that look. It was the look of a judge.

She instinctively tried to hide. She shifted her body, trying to put Buster between her and the old man. She used the dog as a shield, peering over his scarred back, waiting for the order to leave.

The silence on the driveway was absolute. Even the fountain seemed to quiet down.

Alistair took a step down. Then another.

He stopped three steps from the bottom. His hand was shaking on the cane.

Then, he did something impossible.

He let go of the cane.

The gold-headed stick clattered onto the stone, a loud, jarring noise that made Estelle jump.

Alistair didn't care. He ignored the cane. He slowly, painfully, bent his knees. His joints cracked audibly. The billionaire patriarch of the Bridges empire lowered himself until one knee touched the dusty ground.

He was now eye-level with Estelle.

"Elara," he rasped. His voice was like grinding stones, but there was no anger in it.

He reached out a hand. It was weathered, spotted with age, and trembling violently.

"You have her eyes," he whispered. "My God. You have her eyes."

Estelle stared at him. She didn't know who "she" was. She just saw an old man who looked like he was breaking apart.

"Grandpa?" she whispered.

Alistair let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. "Yes. Yes, child."

He reached for her. Estelle flinched, expecting a grab. But he stopped inches from her face, waiting. Asking for permission.

Slowly, Estelle reached out. Her hand was small and filthy. She placed it in his.

Alistair gripped it like it was a lifeline. He pulled her hand to his face, pressing her dirty palm against his clean-shaven cheek. He closed his eyes, and a single tear tracked through the grime on her skin.

"I thought I lost you," he said. "I thought the darkness took you."

"I'm back," she said, not knowing what else to say.

"Yes. And you will never leave again."

He opened his eyes. The vulnerability vanished, replaced by a fierce, terrifying protectiveness. He stood up, groaning with effort, but he didn't let go of her hand.

"Winston!" he barked. "Why is my granddaughter standing outside? Prepare the feast!"

He didn't walk her in. He scooped her up.

Estelle gasped as the old man lifted her. He was surprisingly strong, his arms like iron bands. He carried her up the stairs, past the stunned staff, past a fuming Harlen who was kicking at a pebble.

"Hey!" Harlen shouted. "I'm hungry too! Does anyone care?"

Alistair didn't even turn his head. "If you ruin this moment, boy, you'll sleep in the stables."

They entered the house.

It was a cavern of marble and gold. A crystal chandelier the size of a car hung from the ceiling. Estelle buried her face in Alistair's shoulder, overwhelmed by the sheer scale of it.

As they walked down a long hallway, Estelle lifted her head.

There was a painting on the wall. Ten feet tall. It was a woman in a blue dress. She was beautiful, regal.

And she had Estelle's eyes. The exact same shade of peculiar, violet-flecked gray.

"Who is that?" Estelle asked.

Alistair stopped. He looked at the painting with a mixture of love and agony.

"That is your grandmother," he said softly. "She was the only person who could ever understand me. Until you."

Estelle looked at the woman. For the first time in her life, she didn't feel like a mistake. She felt like a copy of something precious.

Behind them, in the shadow of a potted fern, a young maid pulled out her phone. Her thumbs moved quickly over the screen.

Target confirmed. The brat is back. Plan B initiated.

She hit send, then smoothed her apron and smiled.

The dining table was long enough to land a helicopter on.

Estelle sat in a high-backed velvet chair. Her feet dangled a foot off the floor. To her right sat Alistair. To her left, Eleanor.

Across from her, Harlen was stabbing a napkin with a fork.

The doors to the kitchen swung open. A parade of servers entered. They carried silver platters covered with domes.

The smell hit Estelle first. Roasted chicken. Rosemary. Butter. Rich, heavy scents that made her mouth water and her stomach cramp at the same time.

They lifted the domes.

It was a feast. Golden-skinned chicken, mountains of mashed potatoes with truffle oil, lobster bisque that smelled like the ocean.

Estelle looked down at her place setting. There were four forks. Three spoons. Two knives.

Panic flared.

Which one? Left to right? Right to left?

In the foster home, you got a plastic spoon. If you lost it, you ate with your fingers.

She sat perfectly still, her hands in her lap. She didn't dare move. If she picked the wrong fork, maybe they would send her back.

Alistair was watching her. He saw the way her eyes darted from the silverware to the food.

He didn't say a word about etiquette.

He reached out, grabbed the serving spoon, and scooped a massive pile of mashed potatoes directly onto her plate. Then he picked up a chicken leg with his bare hand and dropped it on top.

"Cutlery is for people who aren't hungry," Alistair announced. He picked up his own chicken leg and took a bite, grease shining on his chin.

The staff looked horrified. Eleanor giggled through her tears.

Arthur smiled. He served Estelle some corn.

Harlen slammed his fork down. "Why does she get the big piece?"

Arthur didn't look up from cutting Estelle's meat. "Because she needs it. And you, son, have had plenty."

He used tongs to drop a large pile of steamed broccoli onto Harlen's plate. Nothing else.

"This is dinner," Arthur said.

"I hate broccoli!" Harlen whined. "This is abuse!"

Estelle stopped chewing. She looked at Harlen. He looked genuinely upset. In her world, food was currency. Food was peace.

She hesitated, then picked up her chicken leg. It was warm and greasy in her hand.

She reached across the table, leaning far over, and offered it to Harlen.

"Here," she whispered. "You can have mine. I'm not... I can eat the broccoli."

Silence fell over the room.

Harlen stared at the chicken leg. He stared at her. He saw the genuine fear in her eyes, the instinct to appease the angry male.

It made him feel small. And Harlen hated feeling small.

He slapped her hand away.

"I don't want your garbage!" he shouted.

The chicken leg flew out of her hand. It hit the white tablecloth, leaving a smear of brown grease, and tumbled onto the floor.

Clatter. Splat.

Estelle gasped. She scrambled off her chair instantly. She dropped to her knees under the table, reaching for the chicken on the rug.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" she cried, her voice high and frantic. "I'll clean it! I'll eat it, it's still good! Don't be mad!"

She grabbed the dirty chicken and tried to wipe it on her shirt.

Above her, the sound of a chair scraping violently against the floor.

Arthur was standing. His face was a thundercloud.

"Harlen," Arthur said. His voice was so low the windows rattled. "Get out."

"But-"

"Get. Out. Now. One week grounded. No electronics. No car. Go."

Winston appeared from the shadows, gripping Harlen's shoulder with a firm hand. He marched the protesting boy out of the room.

Under the table, Estelle was shaking, holding the chicken to her chest like a treasure.

A hand appeared in her vision. Alistair.

He wasn't mad. He was weeping silently.

"Oh, my dear," he whispered. He gently pried her fingers open. He took the dirty chicken and tossed it aside. "We have more. We have infinite chicken. You never have to eat off the floor again."

He pulled her out from under the table and lifted her back into her chair.

"Eat," he commanded gently. "Eat until you burst."

Estelle took a bite of potato. It tasted like butter and salt and safety.