Instead, he pictured a baby crying in the dark.
Daniel didn’t reply.
He acted.
Using his security contact, he traced the approximate location of the number. A residential building in the Bronx—not some overseas scam center.
Without overthinking it, he grabbed his pickup truck instead of his Mercedes.
At a 24-hour pharmacy, he didn’t buy one can of formula.
He bought twelve.
Plus diapers. Wipes. Infant medicine. Baby blankets.
He filled the back seat.
At 5:10 a.m., he knocked on a peeling metal door in a dim hallway.
Inside, Emily froze.
No one knocked at that hour unless it meant trouble.
“Who is it?” she asked, voice shaking.
“My name is Daniel,” came a calm voice. “You texted me last night. I think you meant to message someone else… but I brought something for your baby.”
Her stomach dropped.
Wrong number.
Humiliation burned her cheeks.
She opened the door slightly.
Instead of a creep or a debt collector, she saw a tall man in simple clothes—but clearly expensive. His green eyes didn’t show pity.
They showed concern.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I made a mistake.”
“I know,” he said gently, lifting the bags. “But maybe it wasn’t.”
Inside the tiny apartment, Daniel set the formula cans on the table.