Grace shoved her frayed duffel bag deeper under the glass coffee table.

She abandoned the audition. Abandoned leaving the airport.

The stiff chair felt like a cage. She rose, abandoning it, and sank onto the plush sofa instead.

The boy who’d offered the handkerchief climbed up beside her, settling on her left. Tiny fingers adjusted his silk tie with unnerving precision.

The bespectacled boy perched on her right. His tablet, already open and glowing, displayed a rapid stream of code. With a final tap, the screen flickered – now showing a live feed of the lounge’s main entrance. He’d sliced through the guest wifi’s flimsy password, hijacking the public monitor feed in seconds.

The third boy bypassed the sofa entirely. He climbed directly into Grace’s lap.

He burrowed into the hollow of her collarbone, resting his head there, eyes closed.

Grace went rigid. Her hands hovered uselessly in the air, terrified to touch the expensive fabric of his coat.

An annoyed sigh escaped him. He grabbed her wrists, pulling her arms down, forcing them into a tight embrace around his small waist.

The heavy, warm weight of him pressed against her stomach.

A sharp ache bloomed in Grace’s chest – a tenderness so intense it hurt.

The boy on her left studied her profile.

"Flawless bone structure," he declared, voice pure Hollywood agent. "Oscar potential."

A breathless laugh escaped Grace. Jaw tension eased.

"Thank you."

The boy on her right didn’t look up from his screen.

"Mass-produced garments," he stated flatly. "Fabric pairing indicates high-level European classical aesthetic."

Grace stared. A five-year-old dissecting fashion theory.

"Who taught you that? Where are your parents? Why are you alone?"

The air froze.

A lightning-fast glance passed between the three.

The boy on her left lowered his lashes, shoulders slumping. "Father is a workaholic," he whispered, voice thick with manufactured sorrow. "Only cares about money. Not us."

The boy on her right tapped his screen. "Handed off to cold, violent bodyguards. Zero freedom," he added tonelessly.

The boy in her lap squeezed his eyes shut. Two perfect tears welled, soaking into Grace’s cheap cotton shirt.

Grace’s stomach clenched. Hot anger flared towards the unseen, uncaring father.

She unzipped her bag’s front pocket, pulling out three cheap, foil-wrapped chocolates saved from her flight.

She offered them.

These boys wore fortunes. Probably dined on gold-leaf desserts.

All three snatched the chocolate without hesitation.

The left boy took a bite, closing his eyes. "Most exquisite culinary experience of my life," he pronounced.

Grace watched them chew.

Suddenly – a high-pitched wail echoed in the back of her skull. A baby’s cry.

Pain exploded behind her eyes. A white-hot nail driven into her temple.

The chocolate wrapper fell. She pressed her palms hard against her forehead, a low moan escaping.

The boy on her right dropped his tablet. He seized Grace’s left wrist with both small hands, squeezing fiercely, pouring stubborn warmth into her, anchoring her against the storm.

The boy on her left leaped up. Ran to the dispenser. Filled a paper cup with hot water. Rushed back, holding it to her lips.

The boy in her lap reached up, chubby hands cupping her pale cheeks. "Don’t be scared," he whispered against her skin. "We are here."

The sharp pain began to recede. Their touch, a lifeline.

Grace pulled all three close, wrapping her arms around them.

Tears spilled, burning tracks down her cheeks. Why?

Then. The floor vibrated.

Heavy, synchronized footsteps echoed outside the VIP lounge. Military boots on linoleum.

The bespectacled boy snatched up his tablet. A red warning light flashed.

His face hardened. "Trouble."

The boy on her left grabbed Grace’s hand, fingers digging in. His eyes widened with practiced terror.

"Please," he begged, the picture of desperate innocence. "You have to save us."

Grace shoved the boys behind her back.

She crept toward the thick glass wall of the VIP lounge, pressing her shoulder against the frame.

Peered through the frosted stripes.

Ten massive men in identical black suits marched down the corridor. Earpieces coiled behind their ears. Movement precise, lethal – ex-special forces, or worse.

The lead man held a radio to his mouth. His face was carved from violence.

Grace’s lungs seized.

Right. Dangerous. They’d hurt the boys.

The boy on her left tugged her shirt hem. Pointed a small finger toward a gray ‘Employees Only’ door at the lounge’s rear.

The bespectacled boy pulled up a blueprint on his tablet. “Corridor leads to underground parking,” he whispered.

No time to question a child hacking airport schematics. Survival instinct roared, drowning the tremor in her hands.

Grace dropped to her knees, ripped open her duffel.

Muscle memory took over. Years of stage combat, prop wrangling, desperate scrabbling – channeled into frantic disguise.

She yanked out a massive khaki trench coat. Shoved the smallest boy inside, buttoning it to his chin.

Dug out a vintage silk scarf. Wrapped it tightly around the left boy’s head, covering his hair, jammed cheap plastic sunglasses onto his face.

Snatched her wide-brimmed straw hat, crammed it onto the bespectacled boy’s head.

She pulled her gray hoodie up, snapping a surgical mask over her nose and mouth. The fabric felt flimsy armor against the terror clawing her throat.

Through the glass, the lead bodyguard pointed at the lounge doors.

Ten yards.

Grace sucked in a breath like shrapnel. Scooped the smallest boy into her left arm. Grabbed the other two’s hands with her right.

Crouched low, using the potted palms as a shield – a trick learned dodging stage managers and paparazzi.

She moved fast toward the gray door.

A bodyguard outside stopped. Head turned. Eyes locked onto the gaps between fronds.

Grace’s heart stuttered.

She slammed back against the wall, pulling the boys flat against her legs, breath trapped in her chest.

The bespectacled boy reached into his pocket. A small black device. Button pressed.

Outside: The bodyguard doubled over, ripping out his earpiece, face contorted by a burst of agonizing static.

Go!

Grace shoved the gray door open, dragging the boys into the bleach-scented, dusty dark.

Behind them: the VIP lounge doors crashed open.

“GONE!” a voice roared.

Grace ran.

Boots slapped concrete. She half-carried, half-dragged the boys down the narrow hall.

The boy in her arms wasn’t crying. He was laughing. Soft, breathless giggles vibrated against her neck – a bizarre counterpoint to the pounding of her heart and the roar of blood in her ears.

Grace clamped her hand over his mouth. “Shh!” Cold sweat snaked down her spine.

The heavy metal fire door loomed. Green EXIT sign glowed.

She hit the crash bar with her shoulder.

The door flew open. Cold, damp garage air slapped her face.

She stepped onto concrete.

Two blinding beams SNAPPED on – searing her retinas. She flinched violently, squeezing her eyes shut and turning her head away, the sudden agony a white-hot spike through her fragile nerves.

A massive, armored black Maybach glided forward in absolute silence.

It stopped inches from her knees, blocking the exit.

The rear passenger door and the front passenger door popped open simultaneously.

More men in black suits poured out, forming an impassable wall around Grace and the boys.

The tinted window of the still-closed rear driver’s side door began to lower silently.

A man sat in the shadows within.

His side profile was carved from arctic ice. Cold. Brutal. Terrifyingly still.

The rear door of the Maybach swung open.

A pair of long legs stepped out onto the concrete.

Bryce Delaney stood up. The custom Armani suit stretched across his broad shoulders, radiating a suffocating, violent authority.

The headlights cast long, sharp shadows across his face.

Grace couldn't see clearly through the glare. She shoved the three boys behind her legs.

She planted her feet, her body curling into a protective, animalistic stance.

Bryce's cold eyes scanned the cheap hoodie and the surgical mask covering Grace's face.

A muscle feathered in his jaw.

"Take her," Bryce ordered. His voice was a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated against the concrete walls.

Two bodyguards lunged forward.

Their massive hands reached for Grace's shoulders.

Grace didn't think.

Her body reacted on pure instinct.

She twisted her torso, dropping her center of gravity. She drove her combat boot hard into the first guard's kneecap.

The guard grunted in pain and stumbled backward, surprised by the sudden ferocity of her instinctual attack.

Bryce's eyes narrowed. A flash of dark surprise crossed his face.

The second guard reached for Grace's neck.

Before he could touch her, the boy with the scarf ripped off his sunglasses and threw himself in front of Grace.

He spread his small arms wide.

"Stand down!" the boy screamed. His voice carried the exact same terrifying authority as the man in the suit.

The bodyguards froze instantly. They looked at Bryce, terrified to move.

Bryce stared at his son. His eldest boy, who never showed emotion, was willing to take a hit for a stranger.

The other two boys ran out from behind Grace. They wrapped their arms around her thighs, glaring at Bryce with angry accusation, their small faces pinched with pure defiance.

Grace's chest heaved. She reached up and ripped the surgical mask off her face to get more air.

The cold wind in the garage blew the hood off her head.

The harsh glare of the headlights illuminated her face perfectly.

Bryce stopped breathing.

The air vanished from his lungs. His heart slammed against his ribs so hard he thought they would shatter.

His pupils dilated.

It was her.

The face he had searched for in the rubble. The face that haunted every single one of his nightmares for five years.

Grace.

Bryce's hands started to shake. He took a slow, agonizing step forward.

"You..." The word tore out of his throat, raw and bleeding.

Grace looked at him.

Her eyes were wide. But there was no recognition.

There was only pure, unadulterated fear and disgust.

"Stay back," Grace hissed. "If you touch them, I will scream until the LAPD gets here."

Bryce stopped dead in his tracks.

The physical pain in his chest was unbearable. She was looking at him like he was a monster.

She didn't know him. The amnesia was real.

Bryce swallowed the bile rising in his throat. He forced the agonizing grief down into his stomach.

He locked his facial muscles into a mask of absolute, corporate indifference.

"I am their father," Bryce said coldly. "Get in the car."

Grace froze.

She looked down at the three boys clinging to her.

The boys dropped their heads, staring at the concrete.

The realization hit Grace like a physical slap. They lied to her.

The embarrassment burned her cheeks. But the danger radiating from the man in the suit kept her muscles tense.

"Get in the car," Bryce repeated. "Or I will have you arrested for kidnapping."

The bodyguards stepped closer, cutting off every angle of escape.

Grace looked at the boys. She couldn't leave them with this tyrant.

She clenched her jaw, grabbed the boys' hands, and climbed into the back of the Maybach.

Bryce slid in right beside her.

The heavy door slammed shut, sealing them inside.

The scent of cedar and dark musk filled the tight space. Bryce's large frame took up all the oxygen.

The Maybach shot out of the garage, tearing onto the highway toward Beverly Hills.