“My name is Clara Monroe,” she said quietly. “I’m not here for money. I just… I need a job. Any kind of work. My sister is hungry.”
Victor observed her with a focus so intense it made the guards uneasy. Her eyes were sharp and wary, her expression guarded. Fear was there—but so was determination. This wasn’t an act. It was endurance, refined by necessity.
He lifted his hand slightly, signaling security to step back.
“Get food,” he said under his breath. “And water.”
Moments later, a tray appeared at the gate—bread, soup, fruit. Victor watched as Clara accepted it, her hands shaking.
She didn’t eat.
Instead, she broke the bread into small pieces, feeding the baby first whenever the child stirred. Only after the infant settled did Clara take a few careful sips of soup, slow and measured, as if afraid it might vanish.
Something tight and unfamiliar twisted in Victor’s chest.
“When was the last time you ate?” he asked.
“Yesterday morning,” Clara answered simply. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.”
No child should ever be forced to say those words.
