The little girl reached for a slice of cake at a gala meant to help children like her.

Saint Jude’s Memorial Hospital was shrouded in morning fog when Damon arrived. He had traded his torn gala tuxedo for a dark charcoal wool coat, flanked by two attorneys from his corporate litigation firm and Kane in civilian attire.

He didn't bother making an appointment. Damon pushed through the double glass doors of the fourth-floor psychiatric intensive care unit with the unstoppable momentum of a freight train.

"Sir! You cannot enter this ward!" a nurse at the central nursing station cried, jumping up. "This is a restricted quarantine floor!"

Damon tossed a signed federal injunction and a notice of corporate oversight directly onto the counter. "I am Damon Cross. My foundation funds seventy percent of this facility’s operating budget, which means I own every tile beneath your feet. Where is the patient admitted under the alias Jane Doe at 4:15 AM?"

A door down the hall opened, and Dr. Harrison Bell—a thin man with nervous eyes and expensive cufflinks—stepped out, wiping his palms on his white coat.

"Mr. Cross, this is highly irregular," Dr. Bell stammered, blocking the door to Room 418. "The patient is severely agitated, delirious, and poses a danger to herself. She is heavily sedated under legal medical quarantine."

"Step aside, Bell," Damon warned, his voice a low, lethal hum. "Or my legal team will have you stripped of your medical license and charged as an accessory to kidnapping before the stock exchange opens."

Bell swallowed hard, looked at the imposing security operative behind Damon, and stepped aside.

Damon pushed open the heavy wooden door of Room 418.

The room was freezing. Tied to the hospital bed by soft cloth restraints was Clara Hayes. Her face was pale, bruised along the jawline, and hollowed by exhaustion. An IV line ran into her forearm, slowly dripping a clear tranquilizer into her veins.

Her eyelids fluttered weakly as the door opened. When she saw Damon’s tall, unfamiliar silhouette, panic flickered in her dull hazel eyes. She fought against the restraints, her breathing turning shallow and frantic.

"Maya..." Clara croaked, her voice dry and rasping. "Where is... my baby... don't hurt her..."

Damon knelt beside the bed immediately, just as he had knelt before Maya in the garden hours earlier. He reached out and gently placed a warm hand over Clara’s trembling, restrained fingers.

"Clara, listen to me," Damon said, his voice firm, steady, and clear. "My name is Damon Cross. Maya is safe. She is at my private estate right now. She is fed, she has clean clothes, and she has a security team protecting her."

Clara stopped pulling. Her tear-filled eyes locked onto his, searching for deceit.

"You're... Damon Cross?" she whispered, a shudder running through her body. "The billionaire... on the gala brochures?"

"I am," Damon said. "And I'm here to take you home."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the tarnished silver locket, holding it up so she could see the cracked hinge.

Clara let out a choked, ragged sob. The tension drained from her body so completely that she slumped back against the pillows, tears streaming freely down her bruised cheeks. "She gave you the locket. She only gives that to people she trusts."

"She asked for you, Clara. She's waiting for you," Damon assured her. He turned to Kane. "Unstrap her. Pull that IV line now."

"Wait," Clara gasped, gripping his sleeve with sudden, desperate strength. Her fingers were clammy, but her grip was fierce. "Rochefort... Julian Rochefort knows where she is. When they took me, I heard him on the speakerphone. He has Child Protective Services and the municipal police tactical squad en route to your estate right now with an emergency seizure order. He’s going to take Maya into state custody before you can file guardianship!"

Damon’s blood ran cold. "He wouldn't dare."

"He will!" Clara wept. "He forged an interstate abduction warrant! He’s telling the media that you kidnapped Maya from the gala! If they take her into the county system, she’ll disappear into a foster facility under their payroll—and I will never see my daughter again!"

Damon stood straight, his eyes turning to black ice. He pulled his phone from his coat, dialing Marcus’s direct encrypted line.

"Marcus," Damon barked the second the call connected. "Lock down the Haven. We have bogeys inbound with forged warrants. Do not surrender the child to anyone."

On the other end of the line, the sound of blaring sirens and squealing tires cut through the receiver.