To everyone inside, he was the successful golden son who had risen to the very top, but in that moment, he was kneeling in the dirt behind the catering entrance, staring at a little girl in a faded, torn dress.
The child clutched a tray of leftover pastries she had dragged from a black plastic garbage bag.
She lifted her face with wide, wet eyes and a tangled braid, her tiny body trembling in the cold night air.
“Daddy?” she whispered, her voice almost swallowed by the distant string quartet playing inside.
Victor felt the ground beneath his life break apart into a thousand sharp pieces, because this was Annie, his daughter.
He had not seen her in three long years, not since his wife, Catherine, had supposedly abandoned him, leaving only a cold letter and divorce papers behind.
His mother, Maris, had carefully created a story of betrayal, telling Victor that Catherine had run away with an old lover, wanted nothing more to do with him, and had strictly forbidden him from searching for the child.
Victor, blinded by wounded pride and anger that had hardened over the years, had believed the story without questioning it, though he had never stopped sending money every month.
Month after month, he transferred a large allowance into the private account his mother swore Catherine used to keep Annie comfortable.
