A baby—no older than one—sat alone on the dirt. His face was red from crying, his small hands trembling, his clothes clean and expensive. A tiny gold bracelet glinted on his wrist, engraved with neat initials.
E. C.
Jalen swallowed hard. “Rich kid…”
The baby screamed again and reached both arms toward him, begging without words.
Jalen stepped back, heart racing. “Hey… no. Don’t do that,” he whispered. “I can’t touch you. They’ll hurt me if they see.”
But the baby didn’t understand fear or class or consequences. He only knew he was alone.
Jalen clenched his fists. He knew what would happen if someone saw a street kid with a millionaire’s child. No questions. No mercy.
Still—he couldn’t leave.
He knelt slowly. “Okay… okay. I won’t go,” he murmured, voice shaking.
The moment his fingers brushed the baby’s arm, the child leaned into him, clutching his torn shirt and pressing his face against Jalen’s chest as if he had known him forever.
Jalen’s breath caught. “You don’t know how dangerous this is, do you…”
He looked around—no guards, no nanny, no car. Someone had made a terrible mistake.