She had been ten when I left—curious, sharp, always wanting to know how things worked. Before moving abroad, I bought a $4 million estate under her name, paid in full, trusting she and my sister, Denise, would live comfortably while I handled business overseas.
I sent money every month, not once missing a payment, certain my family would protect her.
When I arrived at the gate, the house looked perfect. The lawn trimmed, the porch pristine, windows gleaming. But the moment I stepped inside, something felt off.
A woman in a faded housekeeping uniform was scrubbing the marble near the staircase, shoulders slumped, hands shaking. I almost greeted her politely—until she lifted her face.
It was Lily.
She looked twice her age—hollow cheeks, tired eyes, faint bruises on her arms. She froze, unsure whether to smile or apologize.
“Lily?” I whispered.
She stared for several seconds before recognition appeared. “Dad? You’re… home?”
Before I could ask anything, Denise walked in wearing an expensive robe, wine glass in hand. Her expression shifted from irritation to practiced sweetness. “Oh! You’re early,” she said lightly. “Lily still has chores to finish, but we can talk—”