It was a Rolls Royce Phantom. Extended wheelbase. Jet black. The hood ornament, the Spirit of Ecstasy, gleamed under the streetlights, but unlike the ostentatious Villarreal fleet, this car bore no flags, no crests. It was a ghost in the night, radiating silent, terrifying power.

Behind it, a second car stopped. Then a third. A fourth. It was a motorcade fit for a head of state.

The rear door of the first car flew open before the chauffeur could even get there. A man in a grey suit sprinted out into the rain. He didn't care about his Italian leather shoes sinking into the mud.

"Giselle!"

It was her father. Or the man she had only seen in blurry, recovering memories.

He reached her in two strides and pulled her into a crushing embrace. He smelled of old tobacco and comfort. "I found you. My god, we found you."

A woman followed him, sobbing openly. Her mother. She wrapped her arms around both of them, sandwiching Giselle in warmth. "My baby. My sweet girl."

Giselle stood frozen, the rain matting her hair to her skull, mud streaked across her cheek. She was too shocked to cry.

Then, the doors of the second car opened.

Three men stepped out. Tall. Imposing. They moved with a predatory grace that screamed power.

Kordell Hines. The eldest. He took one look at Giselle-shivering, wet, broken-and his face darkened with a rage that could burn cities. He took off his cashmere trench coat and draped it over her shoulders. It was heavy and warm.

"Who did this?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. He looked toward the Villarreal gates.

"Let's get her inside," the second brother, Silas, said. He walked over to her broken suitcase. He looked at it with disdain, then kicked it aside. "Leave it. You don't need garbage anymore."

The third brother, the youngest, Asher, stepped up. He pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabbed the mud from her forehead. His eyes were red-rimmed. "We have a penthouse ready for you in Coast City. Or the estate in the Hamptons. Wherever you want to go, Elle."

Elle. The nickname from a childhood she had almost forgotten.

"Let's go home," her father said, guiding her toward the open door of the Rolls Royce.

Giselle climbed into the back seat. It was like entering a different world. The air was climate-controlled to a perfect seventy-two degrees. The seats were softer than her bed at the manor.

Her mother sat beside her, gripping her hand so tight her rings dug into Giselle's skin. She handed her a thermos of hot cocoa.

"We have the best doctors on standby," Silas said from the jump seat. "We're going to fix whatever they broke."

Kordell handed her a leather folder. "This is just the start," he said. "Ten percent of Hines Global. It's in your name. Effective immediately."

Giselle looked down at the papers. The numbers were staggering. In the span of five minutes, she had gone from destitute to a billionaire.

"Why..." her voice cracked. "Why now?"

"We never stopped looking," her father said, his voice breaking. "The Woods family... they hid you well. But we found the discrepancy in the records. We came as fast as we could."

As the convoy began to move, pulling away from the curb, Giselle looked out the tinted back window.

Through the rain, she saw the imposing silhouette of the Villarreal manor. It looked like a prison now. A cold, stone mausoleum.

Inside that house, Joseph was probably pouring himself a drink, relieved to be rid of the "fraud." He had no idea. He thought he had thrown out trash, but he had just declared war on an empire.

Back in the manor, Joseph stood by the window. He saw the red taillights of the convoy fade into the mist.

"Sir," Kieran, his assistant, entered the room. "We've lost her."

Joseph frowned, turning around. "What do you mean?"

"I tried to track her phone. I tried to check the train stations, the bus depots. Nothing. Her signal just... vanished. It's like she ceased to exist the moment she stepped out the gate."

Joseph swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "She's hiding," he muttered. "She'll turn up in some cheap motel in a few days when she needs money."

But a knot of unease tightened in his stomach. He remembered the look in her eyes before she left. It wasn't the look of a defeated woman. It was the look of someone who had nothing left to lose. And that convoy... he hadn't seen the logos, but the precision of those cars, the way they moved in formation-that wasn't a taxi service. That was extraction.

In the Rolls Royce, Giselle took a sip of the cocoa. The warmth spread through her chest. She leaned her head on her mother's shoulder.

The girl who cried in the mud was gone.

---

"Dr. Mandy," a resident stammered, jogging to keep up with her stride. "The neuro consult in Room 304-they're asking for your opinion on the synaptic response."

Giselle adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses. The surgical mask covered the lower half of her face, and her hair was pulled back in a severe, tight bun. No one looked at her and saw Giselle Villarreal. They saw Dr. Mandy, the phantom of the neurological world. She wore no jewelry, no makeup, just a plain, functional watch on her wrist that belied the billions in her bank account.

"Increase the dosage of the inhibitor by 2%," she said, her voice crisp. "And check the spinal fluid pressure. You missed the micro-tremors in his left hand."

The resident blinked, awestruck. "Right. Yes. Thank you, Doctor."

Giselle checked the generic medical watch on her wrist. 3:00 PM. She had exactly twenty minutes before she had to pick up Kim from her ballet class.

She turned the corner toward the elevators, her mind already shifting from neurotoxins to dinner plans.

Thud.

Something small and solid slammed into her legs.

Giselle stumbled back, catching her balance. She looked down.

A little boy, no older than five, was clinging to her lab coat. He was dressed in a miniature, tailored navy suit that probably cost more than most people's cars. His dark hair was tousled, and his big, brown eyes were wide with panic.

"Shh!" he hissed, pressing a finger to his lips.

"Young man?" she started, reaching down to detach him.

"Hide me!" he whispered urgently. "The gorillas are coming!"

"Gorillas?"

"Jamin! Master Jamin!" Heavy voices echoed from the main entrance.

Giselle looked up. Three men in black suits were scanning the crowd, looking frantic. Bodyguards.

The boy, Jamin, looked up at her. His eyes... Giselle froze. Those eyes. They were the color of espresso. They were Joseph's eyes.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was Joseph's son. Clydie's son.

She should have pushed him away. She should have called the guards. But the terror in his little face triggered something primal in her.

She stepped to the side, flaring her white coat open just enough to shield him between her and a large potted fern. She pulled a chart from under her arm and pretended to read it.

The bodyguards ran past them, their earpieces buzzing.

When they were gone, Jamin peeked out. He let out a dramatic sigh of relief. "That was close. They are so annoying."

He looked up at her, tilting his head. "Wow."

"Wow what?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

"You have really pretty eyes," he said solemnly. "You look like the mommy in my dreams."

Giselle's breath hitched. "I think you're confusing me with someone else."

"Nope," he said, popping the 'p'. He grabbed her hand. His fingers were small and warm. "I heard the nurse call you Dr. Mandy. Are you the boss here?"

"I work here," she corrected lightly, her pulse still racing.

"Are you single? I need a girlfriend."

Giselle couldn't help it. A laugh escaped her mask. "I'm a little old for you."

"Not for me," he said, shaking his head. "For my daddy."

Her smile vanished.

"My daddy needs a girlfriend. Or a doctor. Or both." Jamin suddenly clutched his chest and groaned. "Oh no. My heart. I think I'm dying."

Giselle dropped to one knee instantly, her fingers finding his radial pulse. Strong. Regular.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Your heart is fine."

He dropped the act immediately, grinning. "Okay, you caught me. I'm not sick. But my daddy is. He's really sick."

"Where is your mother?" she asked, the words tasting like ash. "Shouldn't she be helping him?"

Jamin's face fell. The playful spark vanished. "I don't like her," he muttered, kicking at the floor tile. "She's mean. She just wants Daddy's money. Daddy doesn't like her either. He kicked her out."

Giselle's brain short-circuited. Kicked her out? But the news... the tabloids painted them as the perfect power couple.

"Dr. Mandy to the ER. Dr. Mandy to the ER," the overhead speaker blared.

Giselle stood up. "I have to go, Jamin. Go find your guards."

"Wait!" He held onto her sleeve. "Please. My daddy... he hurts. He hits his head against the wall because it hurts so bad."

She stopped. That sounded like neurotoxic residue syndrome.

"Please," he whispered, his eyes filling with tears. "Help him."

---

I don't like her.

The sentence echoed in her head, overlapping with the memory of the child she had lost. The child she thought had died in the chaos of her departure six years ago. If her baby had lived, he would be exactly Jamin's age.

She turned back.

Jamin was still there, looking at his shiny black shoes.

"Hey," she said softly.

His head snapped up. Hope flared in those dark eyes.

"You said your dad has headaches?" she asked, crouching down to his eye level again.

"Yeah," Jamin nodded vigorously. "Super bad ones. He locks himself in the dark room. He thinks I don't know, but I hear him groaning."

He reached into his tiny jacket pocket and pulled out a card. It wasn't a business card. It was a black American Express Centurion card.

"I can pay you," he said earnestly, holding it out with two hands. "I have lots of money. I can buy the whole hospital if you want."

Giselle stared at the heavy titanium card. It was absurd. It was heartbreaking.

"Put that away," she said gently, pushing his hand back. "I don't want your money."

"Then what do you want?" he asked, desperate. "I have a limited edition Optimus Prime?"

She smiled behind her mask. "Keep your robot. I just want you to promise not to run away from your guards again."

He nodded solemnly.

"Okay," she sighed. "I'll take a look at his chart. That's it. No promises."

Jamin squealed and threw his arms around her neck. He smelled like baby shampoo and sugar. He planted a wet, sloppy kiss on her masked cheek.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Her heart squeezed. She stood up and took his hand. "Where is he?"

"VIP floor. The penthouse suite," Jamin said, tugging her toward the elevators.

We stepped into the elevator. The doors slid shut, enclosing them in a mirrored box.

Giselle looked at their reflection. The tall woman in the white coat, the small boy in the suit. There was something... harmonious about it. The curve of his jaw, the way he stood.

Stop it, she scolded herself. He is Joseph's son. He is the son of the man who ruined you.

But as the numbers on the display ticked upward-2, 3, 4... P-her anxiety wasn't about the past. It was about the immediate future.

She was about to walk into a room with Joseph Villarreal.

She hadn't seen him in six years. She had seen photos in magazines, of course. He looked colder, harder. More ruthless. Rumor had it he was injured during a hostile takeover attempt in Europe-a car bomb that should have killed him.

"Does your dad know you're bringing a doctor?" she asked.

Jamin bit his lip. "Um. Not exactly. He hates doctors. He throws things at them."

"Great," she muttered. "So I'm walking into a lion's den."

"Don't worry," Jamin squeezed her hand. "I'll protect you."

The elevator chimed. The doors opened to the VIP floor.

Two massive bodyguards stood at the end of the hall. They saw Jamin and relaxed visibly, then tensed again when they saw Giselle.

"Master Jamin," one of them said into his wrist mic. "We found him. He's with... a doctor."

Giselle took a deep breath. The air up here smelled different. Expensive. Sanitized.

"Come on," Jamin whispered.

She tightened her grip on his hand. She adjusted her glasses. She was Dr. Mandy. She was the heir to the Hines dynasty. She was not the scared girl in the rain anymore.

She could do this.

---