“Mia!”
She was curled tight, a child-shaped hollow in the white. Skin pale. Lips blue. Too still. I lifted her—she weighed almost nothing—and laid her across the back seat, blasting the heat, wrapping her in my coat.
“Mia. Open your eyes. Look at me.”
Her lashes fluttered. “Liam?” The word cracked.
“I’m here. You’re safe.”
Her grip tightened on my wrist, terror flooding her eyes.
“No. Don’t take me back. Father said I’m a bad investment. Bad investments get liquidated.”
The words landed like a blade.
“What did he do?”
“He threw me out. Said if I came back, the doctors would come. The ones with needles.”
I eased her collar aside.
There it was.
A deep, purple-black brand burned into her shoulder blade—sharp edges, unmistakable shape. The Sterling crest. Arthur Sterling’s signet ring.
He hadn’t struck her.
He’d marked her.
Mia pulled a crumpled paper from her pocket. “I found this. Is this why?”
I unfolded it carefully.
CERTIFICATE OF DEATH
Name: Mia Sterling
Date: December 25, 2024
Cause: Accidental Hypothermia
It was December 24th.
They weren’t reacting.
They were scheduling.
My phone buzzed.
Home.
I answered.
“Liam,” my mother purred. “Where are you? The Senator asked for you.”
“I’m at the gate. My code’s not working.”
A pause. “We locked it early. There was an… incident. Have you seen a stray animal? Or perhaps… Mia?”
“Mia?” I echoed lightly. “Is she missing?”
Arthur’s voice cut in, polished and loud. “The child is sick. Violent episode. Ran into the storm. If you find her, don’t engage. Bring her to the service entrance. The doctors are waiting.”
Mia shrank beneath my coat.
“I see her,” I said. “She’s not stable.”
“Get her,” Arthur ordered. “Quietly.”
“If I drag her in now, she’ll scream. Cameras will catch it. Guests will hear.”
Silence.
“What do you suggest?” my mother asked.
“I’ll take her to my apartment. Warm her up. Calm her down. After the party, I’ll bring her back. No scene.”
Another pause.
“Good boy,” Arthur said. “Keep her quiet.”
The call ended.
I didn’t drive home. I drove the perimeter until my laptop caught the Sterling_Guest Wi-Fi signal.
They’d funded my career. Thought that meant ownership.
I opened my laptop and slipped through the backdoor I’d left years ago—the kind you keep when you know the house is dangerous.
Arthur’s keystrokes spilled onto my screen.
Prepare paperwork for tragic accident.
Next shipment approved. Boy preferred. Higher payout.
Shipment.
At my apartment, Mia sat wrapped in blankets, eyes glued to the windows.
“They’ll come,” she whispered.
“They won’t,” I said—then found the files.
Projects.
Children.
Returns.
Liquidations.
And one folder labeled LIAM (1999–Present).
I wasn’t family.
I was inventory.
The pounding on the door came hard.
“Dr. Evans,” a voice called. “Your father sent me.”
Through the peephole: no bag. A syringe. Two men behind him.
“Open up,” he said. “Or we force it.”
Clarity settled in. Cold. Exact.
“Mia,” I whispered. “We’re leaving.”
The fire escape groaned open. Four floors down.
“I can’t,” she sobbed.
“You can,” I said. “Jump. I’ve got you.”
She did.
We ran until our lungs burned.
Later, I stood inside the Sterling ballroom as Arthur raised his glass.
“To the children we strive to save.”
I hit enter.
The room went dark.
Then the screen lit up.
Mia’s death certificate.
Arthur’s recorded voice.
My mother’s footage.
The ledger.
Screams. Chaos. Glass shattering.
The doors burst open.
FBI.
Arthur fell. My mother didn’t cry.
Outside, Mia ran into my arms.
“Is it over?”
“Yes.”
One year later, snow fell gently outside a small apartment that felt warm. Mia laughed again. Slept again.
The phone rang.
“We have a boy,” the woman said. “Ten years old. Bad placement.”
I looked at Mia.
“We have room,” I said.
She smiled. “Does he like hot chocolate?”
“I think he will.”
And for the first time, the night was quiet—not because we were hiding, but because we were finally safe.