Chapter 2 - The Whispers of Rochefort Manor
The tension around the marble dessert table did not dissipate; it combusted.
Damon closed his hand protectively around Mia’s wrist, shielding the swallow pendant from the prying eyes of the crowd. His mind spun in a sickening vortex. *Clara.* Clara was dead—or so Julian Rochefort had claimed three years ago, producing a forged death certificate from an offshore clinic in the Caribbean.
If Clara was gone, how did a barefoot, starved four-year-old end up wandering the perimeter of Julian and Elisa Rochefort’s private estate wearing her locket?
“Damon!”
A booming voice cut through the garden. Julian Rochefort himself was descending the marble stairs of the terrace, flanking by two private security guards in charcoal suits. Julian was a man carved from polished granite—silver hair slicked back, a politician’s practiced warmth masking eyes that were cold, calculating, and predatory.
“What seems to be the disturbance?” Julian asked, smiling magnanimously for the onlookers while his eyes raked over Damon and the child. When Julian’s gaze dropped to Mia, a flash of pure panic shattered his composure for a split second before vanishing behind a practiced mask of paternal concern. “Elisa, my dear, what has happened?”
“Julian,” Elisa breathed, her chest heaving, “this child trespassed. Damon is making a scene.”
“A scene?” Damon scoffed, his voice dripping with venom as he lifted Mia into his arms.
She weighed almost nothing. She rested her cheek against his shoulder instinctively, clutching the plate of cake to her chest like a holy relic. Damon felt her heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
“Your wife screamed at a starving child at an event purportedly designed to feed them,” Damon said, facing Julian directly. “The only scene here is the display of your family’s monstrous hypocrisy.”
Julian’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Damon, let’s not be dramatic before our guests. The child is obviously lost. Security will take her to the gatehouse, call child protective services, and ensure she is fed. Hand her over.”
Julian signaled to his chief of security, a burly man named Marcus who took two heavy steps toward Damon.
“Take one more step,” Damon whispered, his voice dangerously low, “and I will break your arm in front of the press.”
Marcus stopped dead in his tracks. He knew Damon Cross. Damon wasn’t just a billionaire; he was an ex-collegiate boxer who spent his mornings sparring with professional heavyweights.
“Julian,” Damon said, turning back to the master of the house, “she stays with me.”
“You have no legal right to that child!” Julian barked, his political facade slipping further as the whispers among the guests grew deafening. “This is private property! You cannot just abduct a stray off my grounds!”
“Then call the police,” Damon dared him, taking a step forward. “Call the commissioner right now. Have him come down here. Let’s invite the press corps inside to cover the story: *Billionaire Senatorial Candidate Julian Rochefort Calls SWAT on Barefoot Orphan at Charity Gala.* I’m sure your campaign manager would love the front page tomorrow morning.”
Julian clenched his jaw so tightly the tendons in his neck threatened to snap. He looked at the phones still recording in the crowd. The gala was ruined. If the police arrived, questions would be asked. Questions that Julian could not afford to answer.
“Take her,” Julian spat in a venomous whisper, leaning close to Damon’s ear. “Take the brat. But you don’t know what you’re meddling in, Cross. Some doors, once opened, will burn your entire house down.”
“I own the fire department, Julian,” Damon replied flatly.
Without another word, Damon turned his back on the Rocheforts, the elite donors, and the flashing cameras. Shielding Mia’s face with his suit jacket, he carried her down the gravel path toward his waiting black Maybach.
Inside the car, his driver, Thomas, took one look at Damon’s grim face and the trembling little girl in his arms, immediately locking the doors and hitting the ignition.
“Where to, Mr. Cross?” Thomas asked quietly.
“To my penthouse,” Damon ordered, his voice raw. “And call Dr. Vance. Tell him to bring a pediatric trauma kit and a rapid DNA testing console. Immediately.”
In the backseat, Mia looked up at Damon through her tangled curls, a smudge of white frosting on her cheek.
“Are you an angel?” she asked softly.
May you like
Damon felt a knot tighten in his throat. He gently wiped the frosting from her face with a silk handkerchief. “No, Mia. I’m not an angel. But from tonight on, nobody is ever going to hurt you again.”
***
