Chapter 1 - The Name on the Street
The woman’s breath froze in her throat.
Her gold designer dress shimmered under the entrance chandeliers.
Her fingers trembled so hard the vintage Polaroid bent in her grip.
In the picture, she was twenty-two, resting in a sterile hospital bed.
In her arms was an infant swaddled in a pale yellow flannel blanket.
Her lips moved, but no sound came out.
The little boy stayed crouched on the cold pavement.
He held the dusty bread roll tightly against his ribs.
His knuckles were raw, swollen, and purple from the autumn wind.
“Who gave you this picture?” she asked again, her voice cracking.
The boy looked up through tangled strands of greasy hair.
He pointed a small, scarred finger toward the rear delivery alley.
“A lady in a wheelchair,” he whispered.
“Her name is Martha.”
“She told me to stand by the glass doors until the woman in gold walked outside.”
The bride’s knees nearly buckled.
Her name was Sophia Sterling.
Eight years ago, she was told her son’s lungs had collapsed thirty minutes after birth.
Her husband had arranged the private cremation while she was still under general anesthesia.
“What is your name, sweetheart?” Sophia choked out, dropping straight onto the dirty pavement.
Her three-thousand-dollar silk gown pooled in the grease and gravel.
The waiter who had slapped the bread took a nervous step backward.
“Ma'am, please,” the waiter stammered, pulling at his bowtie.
“He's just an alley beggar.”
“Shut your mouth,” Sophia snapped, her eyes blazing with sudden, terrifying fire.
She reached out, touching the boy's cheek with her manicured hand.
Underneath the soot and grime sat a tiny, crescent-shaped birthmark.
Right beside his left collarbone.
The exact mark she had kissed before the doctors took him away.
“My name is Toby,” the boy said softly.
“Toby…” Sophia wept, pulling his shivering, bony frame against her chest.
Toby flinched, then slowly rested his forehead against her warm gold fabric.
He smelled of rain, cold exhaust, and stale flour.
Suddenly, the heavy glass doors of the venue banged open.
A man in a bespoke tuxedo stepped out, surrounded by two private security contractors.
Julian Sterling.
Her husband of eight years.
His handsome face was twisted into pure, predatory disgust.
“Sophia, what on earth are you doing in the alley?” Julian barked.
“The photographers are waiting for the second champagne toast.”
Julian’s gaze dropped to the child clinging to his wife’s waist.
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The color instantly drained from the billionaire’s skin.
Why did Julian reach inside his tuxedo jacket the second he saw the boy’s eyes?
