Snow fell thick and silent over Riverside Avenue on a bitter winter night. Inside the grand ballroom of the Hawthorne Foundation, the city’s elite toasted crystal glasses beneath chandeliers. Among them stood Benjamin Cross, billionaire and founder of the empire that bore his name. To everyone else, he was success made flesh. To himself, he was a hollow man in an expensive suit.
It had been four years since the accident that took his wife and son. The noise of celebration felt unbearable. When the orchestra swelled into another polished waltz, Benjamin slipped out through a side door and into the cold. His driver hurried to open the sleek black car waiting at the curb.
“Home, sir?” the driver asked.
Benjamin gave a quiet nod and sank into the back seat. Outside, snowflakes spiraled through the city lights, softening the edges of everything except his grief. The world kept moving, glittering, smiling, while his heart remained still.
They drove in silence through the sleeping streets. Near an old block of shuttered shops, the driver slowed suddenly. “Sir,” he said, pointing toward a narrow alley, “I think someone’s there.”
Benjamin frowned. “Someone?”
The man nodded. “A child, maybe.”