Holland was grey that morning. Cold air pressed against the glass walls of the private suite Damian stood in, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the city below like it owed him something.
Two men stood behind him. Silent. Tense.
One stepped forward and placed a tablet on the table.
"We found her," he said carefully.
Damian didn't turn. "Show me."
The screen lit up. A photo appeared—taken from far away, slightly blurred. Elena stood in an open market, a loose gown moving with the wind, her head bent as she inspected fruit. She looked thinner. Quieter. Alive.
Damian's jaw tightened.
"Zoom."
The man obeyed.
The gown hid her body. No sign of the child. No sign of pain. Just Elena.
"When was this taken?" Damian asked.
"Y
Two days ago. Around noon."
"Who was with her?"
"No one, sir."
Damian finally turned, eyes sharp, lethal. "At that moment?"
