Then the illusion shattered.
A boy appeared at the edge of the hedges.
His name was Noah Rivera, and he wasn’t supposed to be there. His mother, Rosa Rivera, worked as a cleaner in a nearby house. Unaware the park was private, Noah often wandered in to play.
He kicked a worn soccer ball, half-deflated and stained with mud. His clothes were clean but patched, a stark contrast to Claire’s porcelain perfection.
Viktor stepped forward, ready to remove him—but Claire moved.
For the first time in years, she turned her head and focused on something.
On Noah.
At lunchtime, Noah sat beneath an oak tree and unwrapped aluminum foil, revealing a squashed peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He took a bite, then glanced toward Claire.
Her untouched meal tray sat beside her, prepared by a personal chef.
Noah noticed the sadness in her eyes. He didn’t judge it—he simply recognized it.
He stood and held out half his sandwich.
“Hey! Stop right there,” Viktor barked.
Noah stopped, calm, and looked at Claire. “Want some?” he asked simply. “My mom says food tastes better when you share.”
Something sharp and forgotten pierced Claire’s chest.
For ten years, no one had offered her anything without an agenda.