The Billionaire's Stolen Angel: A Painful Return

The silence on the driveway was absolute. Even the fountain seemed to quiet down.

Alistair took a step down. Then another.

He stopped three steps from the bottom. His hand was shaking on the cane.

Then, he did something impossible.

He let go of the cane.

The gold-headed stick clattered onto the stone, a loud, jarring noise that made Estelle jump.

Alistair didn't care. He ignored the cane. He slowly, painfully, bent his knees. His joints cracked audibly. The billionaire patriarch of the Bridges empire lowered himself until one knee touched the dusty ground.

He was now eye-level with Estelle.

"Elara," he rasped. His voice was like grinding stones, but there was no anger in it.

He reached out a hand. It was weathered, spotted with age, and trembling violently.

"You have her eyes," he whispered. "My God. You have her eyes."

Estelle stared at him. She didn't know who "she" was. She just saw an old man who looked like he was breaking apart.

"Grandpa?" she whispered.

Alistair let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. "Yes. Yes, child."

He reached for her. Estelle flinched, expecting a grab. But he stopped inches from her face, waiting. Asking for permission.

Slowly, Estelle reached out. Her hand was small and filthy. She placed it in his.

Alistair gripped it like it was a lifeline. He pulled her hand to his face, pressing her dirty palm against his clean-shaven cheek. He closed his eyes, and a single tear tracked through the grime on her skin.

"I thought I lost you," he said. "I thought the darkness took you."

"I'm back," she said, not knowing what else to say.

"Yes. And you will never leave again."

He opened his eyes. The vulnerability vanished, replaced by a fierce, terrifying protectiveness. He stood up, groaning with effort, but he didn't let go of her hand.

"Winston!" he barked. "Why is my granddaughter standing outside? Prepare the feast!"

He didn't walk her in. He scooped her up.

Estelle gasped as the old man lifted her. He was surprisingly strong, his arms like iron bands. He carried her up the stairs, past the stunned staff, past a fuming Harlen who was kicking at a pebble.

"Hey!" Harlen shouted. "I'm hungry too! Does anyone care?"

Alistair didn't even turn his head. "If you ruin this moment, boy, you'll sleep in the stables."

They entered the house.

It was a cavern of marble and gold. A crystal chandelier the size of a car hung from the ceiling. Estelle buried her face in Alistair's shoulder, overwhelmed by the sheer scale of it.

As they walked down a long hallway, Estelle lifted her head.

There was a painting on the wall. Ten feet tall. It was a woman in a blue dress. She was beautiful, regal.

And she had Estelle's eyes. The exact same shade of peculiar, violet-flecked gray.

"Who is that?" Estelle asked.

Alistair stopped. He looked at the painting with a mixture of love and agony.

"That is your grandmother," he said softly. "She was the only person who could ever understand me. Until you."

Estelle looked at the woman. For the first time in her life, she didn't feel like a mistake. She felt like a copy of something precious.

Behind them, in the shadow of a potted fern, a young maid pulled out her phone. Her thumbs moved quickly over the screen.

Target confirmed. The brat is back. Plan B initiated.

She hit send, then smoothed her apron and smiled.