Victoria’s legs nearly gave way.

Found.

Memories hit her like a tidal wave: smoke, flames licking the walls of the Ashford mansion, screams, the nanny fleeing with a baby in her arms… then nothingness.

Years of searching.
Private detectives.
Posters.
Rewards.
Endless nights staring at an empty bed.

With a tight throat, she managed to ask:
— What’s your name, my dear?

— Rosalie, ma’am. But everyone calls me Rose.

Rose.

The nickname Victoria had given her daughter as a child, because she loved roses more than any toy.

Victoria pressed her hand to her mouth. Tears fell before she could stop them.
— Rose… she whispered, releasing twenty-five years of unspoken prayers.

The young woman stepped back, terrified, clutching a water pitcher like a shield.
— Ma’am, I swear I didn’t steal it…

But what happened next silenced the entire room.