A3.Ethan looked at her with wide, unblinking eyes, his mouth open as if trying to understand how a person could exist without a name.

Defeated at the gala, Julian Sterling refused to let the matter drop.

For Sterling, Harrison’s adoption of Maya was not merely a personal insult—it was a direct threat to his corporate empire. If Harrison used Thomas Vance’s death to reopen the industrial accident lawsuit, Sterling Enterprises faced financial ruin and federal prison time for corporate manslaughter.

In his private office overlooking the Charles River, Sterling met with Richard Vance—Maya’s uncle—a desperate, trembling man hooked on drugs and drowning in gambling debts.

"You said you had control of the girl!" Sterling shouted, slamming a leather folder onto his desk. "Harrison Cross has legally adopted her! The court sealed the records two weeks ago!"

Richard shrank into his chair, his hands shaking. "I... I didn't know where she went, Mr. Sterling! She ran away eight months ago! I thought she died in the winter!"

"She's alive, you idiot!" Sterling growled. "And she's living in a fifty-million-dollar mansion on Beacon Hill! If Harrison Cross gets her to testify in front of a grand jury about what happened to her father's files... both of us are going to prison."

Sterling reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a thick envelope packed with hundred-dollar bills, tossing it onto the table in front of Richard.

"What's this?" Richard asked, his eyes lighting up with greed.

"Fifty thousand dollars," Sterling said coldly. "And another hundred thousand when the job is done. I don't care how you do it. Snatch the girl. Take her out of the state. If Cross doesn't have his key witness, his entire legal case falls apart."

Richard swallowed hard, grabbing the envelope. "She's guarded by Cross's private security team, Sterling. They have armed men at the gates."

"Then find a moment when she isn't behind those gates," Sterling commanded, his voice dark and ruthless. "She goes to private tutoring sessions at the conservatory every Thursday afternoon. Figure it out, or I'll hand you over to the loan sharks you owe money to in South Boston."

Meanwhile, at the Cross estate, Maya was flourishing.

She spent her afternoons in the grand library, learning to play the cello—an instrument she had chosen herself after hearing Ethan play the piano. Her fingers, once cold and scarred from the streets, moved across the strings with an extraordinary, expressive grace.

One afternoon, as Harrison stood in the doorway of the music room watching her play a soft, melic piece, Ethan walked up beside him.

"She plays really well, doesn't she, Dad?" Ethan whispered.

"Yes, Ethan," Harrison said, his heart filled with a profound sense of peace. "She plays beautifully."