“Eat,” she said softly.
The boy looked at her, then looked down at the food. His eyes filled with tears. He began to eat as if he hadn’t eaten in days. Her small hands trembled with each bite, food staining her cheeks.
Maria stood by the stove, watching silently, clutching the crucifix on her necklace.
She looked no more than six years old.
What Maria didn’t know was that James Lancaster, the owner of the mansion, had returned early. He had cut short his trip after a boring business meeting in the city. As she pulled into the driveway, she noticed the gate was open and frowned.
Once inside, she walked silently, expecting the usual quiet of her empty house. But then she heard something—the clinking of metal, the soft scrape of a spoon.
She followed the sound into the kitchen.
And there she saw it: her maid standing in the corner, watching a ragged, dirt-covered boy devour food from a porcelain bowl. The sight was so shocking that she almost dropped her briefcase.
Maria turned away. Her face went pale. “Sir—I… I can explain.”
But James raised a hand.
