One freezing, rainy night, he rode through the city in his silent Tesla, oxygen hissing beside him. His nurse, Grace, and his driver, Carl, sat in front. His wife, Helen, was long gone. A surgery had left him sterile. His only “family” was a greedy nephew waiting for his fortune.
He’d built an empire and somehow ended up with no one.
Then he saw them.
Under the awning of a luxury boutique, four little girls huddled beneath a torn sheet of plastic. Four identical faces. Four heads of wet blond hair. About eight years old.
“Stop the car,” Ethan said.
“Sir, it’s too cold—” Grace began.
“I’m dying,” he cut in. “Safe doesn’t matter anymore. Now does.”
He stepped out, leaning on his cane, coughing so hard he nearly folded in half. Up close, they looked even smaller.
“Hi,” he said softly.
The one in front lifted her chin. “We don’t got anything for you, mister. You can go now.”
“I’m not here to take,” Ethan replied. “I’m here to offer. I’m Ethan. What’s your name?”
“Sophie,” she muttered. Behind her, the others whispered: “June.” “Lily.” The tiniest one, shaking, only stared. “That’s Bea,” Sophie added. “She doesn’t talk.”
“You can’t stay here,” he told them. “This rain isn’t stopping.”