Felicity’s chest tightened. No one ever came looking for her. She had no relatives nearby, no wealthy friends, no life dramatic enough to draw attention. Her existence was small—listed only on work schedules and rent receipts.
The vehicles stopped. Dust rose, then slowly settled. A door opened, and a man stepped out who looked entirely out of place. His clothes were crisp and unmistakably expensive. His posture was calm, assured—the confidence of someone used to being obeyed. His shoes were spotless, untouched by the grit of the street.
Felicity swallowed and forced herself forward.
The man noticed her immediately. His gaze sharpened, focused, as if he already knew she mattered. He approached slowly and stopped a few feet away.
“Excuse me,” he said evenly. “Are you Felicity Brown?”
Her heart lurched. “Yes,” she answered quietly.
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