“It’s nearly midnight,” Alexander muttered. “Have her escorted out.”
“We tried. She claims she has information about Mrs. Dumitrescu.”
The glass stopped halfway to his lips.
No one said Emily’s name anymore. It was treated like a fragile relic no one dared touch.
“Bring her up,” he said quietly.
Minutes later, the girl stood in the center of the vast living room.
She couldn’t have been older than ten. Dark curls tied back messily. Sneakers worn thin at the soles. A jacket too light for the Chicago cold. But her eyes—alert, sharp, carrying something far older than childhood—locked onto his immediately.
Two guards stood beside her, one gripping her shoulder too tightly.
“Let her go,” Alexander said.
The guard released her. She rubbed her shoulder but didn’t retreat. She lifted her chin with the steady defiance of someone who had learned that fear invites cruelty.
“My name is Isabella Cruz,” she said evenly. “And your wife is alive.”
The room went still.
Marcus Hale, Alexander’s executive assistant, who had quietly entered behind them, let out a sharp breath. “Sir, this is manipulation. A scam.”
Isabella didn’t look at him.
“I waited outside,” she explained. “When everyone was distracted by the gala, I slipped in.”
Then her gaze returned to Alexander.
“Emily Dumitrescu is alive. She has a small crescent-shaped scar behind her left ear. She told me, if I ever escaped, I had to find you.”
The scar.
Alexander felt the world tilt.
It was from a childhood fall off a bicycle. A detail so private he had almost forgotten it himself. He had never shared it publicly. Not with staff. Not with press.
Marcus stepped forward. “Someone coached her.”
Fear flickered across Isabella’s face for the first time.
“Please don’t call the police,” she whispered. “They’ll send me back. Or worse. They have people everywhere.”
Alexander steadied himself against the marble counter.
“Who are ‘they’?” he asked quietly.
Isabella swallowed. “People connected to Orion Holdings. Nathaniel Vaughn.”
The name struck like a gunshot.
Vaughn was his fiercest rival. A polished philanthropist in public. Ruthless in private negotiations.
Alexander drew a slow breath.
“Everyone out,” he ordered.
When the room emptied, he gestured toward the sofa. “Sit. Tell me everything.”
She perched at the edge, as if ready to run.