The drive back to his mansion in the northern suburbs felt endless. Traffic blurred past as fear clawed at his chest. Sofia had been different lately—quiet, withdrawn. She hadn’t wanted to go to the park. She stopped drawing. She barely ate.
None of it was normal.
When Jonathan arrived, the iron gates opened slowly. The manicured garden looked perfect. Too perfect.
Inside, the mansion was silent.
“Sofia?”
“Maria?” he called, naming the nanny.
No answer.
He took the stairs two at a time, heart pounding. Sofia’s bedroom door—painted with stars and moons—was slightly open. A dim light glowed inside.
Jonathan pushed the door open.
Sofia was curled on the bed, facing away from him. Stuffed animals lay scattered on the floor. The room felt strangely cold despite the heating.
He sat beside her. “Daddy’s here.”
She slowly turned around.
Her eyes were swollen from crying.
And then he saw it.
The Mark
On her left arm, just beneath the sleeve of her pajamas, was a mark.
Not a bruise.
Not a scratch.
A burn.
Dark purple. Irregular. Almost geometric—like a symbol etched into her skin.
Jonathan’s breath caught.