“That creature?”
The beggar stayed silent.
Testing.
Watching.
Anna quietly stepped in front of him again.
And that single movement changed everything.
Because Margaret Kingston suddenly recognized it.
That instinct.
That reflex to protect others before herself.
It was exactly like someone else she once knew.
Someone long buried.
Margaret’s eyes sharpened.
“What village are you from?” she asked suddenly.
Anna looked confused.
“Rivera.”
Margaret froze.
The color drained slightly from her face.
Rivera.
The same village where, thirty-two years earlier, a poor housekeeper had vanished after secretly giving birth to a child connected to the Kingston family.
Margaret stared harder at Anna now.
At her eyes.
Her cheekbones.
The small birthmark near her collarbone.
And for the first time in years…
fear touched the old woman’s face.
Meanwhile, Alexander felt his pulse quicken beneath the dirt and fake beard disguising him.
Because he saw it too.
Margaret recognized something.
Or someone.
Then Anna quietly bent down and started gathering the fallen fruit from the ground.
One apple rolled toward the beggar’s torn shoe.
She picked it up carefully.
Wiped it clean against her apron.
And offered it back to him with both hands.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
The billionaire’s chest tightened painfully.
Nobody had apologized to him sincerely in years.
Not business partners.
Not models.
Not politicians.
Not even his own family.
Only the maid everyone treated like she was invisible.
Then Margaret suddenly spoke again.
Too quickly.
“Anna,” she said sharply, “come inside. Now.”
