August. Hot as hell.
Outside the orphanage stood a woman decked out in a fancy qipao, clearly well-preserved with not a hair out of place. She craned her neck toward the entrance, muttering under her breath, “What’s taking so long?”
A week ago, the Newman family had received a strange letter. A mysterious someone claimed their biological daughter—who went missing eighteen years ago—was right here in this orphanage.
They did a DNA test. Sure enough, a girl here was a match, and she was exactly eighteen.
Now, truth be told, they weren’t planning on bringing her back. The family already had a daughter, and this one? She’d basically grown up a stranger. But Mr. Newman had put his foot down, so Margaret Leftwich and her husband didn’t have much choice.
Just then, the director stepped out of the building, holding a girl gently by the arm.
The girl wore a clean white tee, loose track pants, and sported long, straight black hair that casually flopped over her shoulders. Her skin was pale, and most of her face was hidden behind a mask, leaving only those clear, misty eyes exposed.
Margaret stared at her for a few beats, eyes scanning up and down curiously. “You must be Charlotte Newman… my daughter?”
Charlotte looked her dead in the eye, her gaze calm and unreadable. After a pause, she simply replied, “Yeah.”
Margaret didn’t respond right away.
The director, grinning kindly, gave Charlotte a quick side hug and walked her forward. “Please don’t mind her, Mrs. Newman. Charlotte’s always been a bit reserved, but she’s a bright one—picks things up fast. Once she settles in at home, I’m sure she’ll fit right in.”
Margaret glanced at the director’s hopeful expression and forced a smile. “Of course.”
Then she turned back to Charlotte. “Ready to go home?”
Charlotte just nodded slightly. She took a few steps alongside Margaret but then abruptly stopped and looked over her shoulder.
She waved at the director. “Bye, Director.”“Make sure to listen to your parents when you get home, okay?” The headmistress smiled warmly. Nothing made her happier than seeing one of the kids from the orphanage reunited with their birth family.
Margaret Leftwich stood nearby, clearly impatient.
Charlotte Newman followed her and climbed into a stretched Rolls-Royce. It wasn't until she got in that she noticed the man already sitting inside.
He looked to be in his mid-forties, wearing a custom-made suit. Years in business had given him a sharp, calculating gaze that now swept over Charlotte from head to toe.
Charlotte didn't flinch. Her eyes lifted slightly, carrying a bold, almost defiant edge.
She had just one backpack, which she casually set on her lap before settling into her seat in silence.
Her calm reaction clearly threw the man off for a second. He didn’t even bother hiding the arrogance in his eyes as he stubbed out his cigarette and asked, “You’re Charlotte Newman?”
Margaret glanced at Charlotte, her tone a little sharp. “This is your father. He took time off work to come pick you up.”
Charlotte gave a soft “oh,” long lashes fluttering slightly before she turned her face toward the window.
The car went quiet.
Louie Newman didn’t like her attitude one bit, but bringing her home wasn’t his choice—Mr. Newman insisted on it. If they left her behind, they’d have to deal with more of the old man’s fury.
With a dark expression, Louie told the driver to get moving.
Not far away, a Volkswagen sat parked by the curb. It looked unremarkable at first glance, but on closer look, the model was rare—elegant and low-profile.
In the back seat sat a man in a black shirt. His face was turned slightly in shadow, making it hard to read his expression, but his features were unmistakably sharp, and his cool eyes had a kind of innate nobility.
He looked up just as the Rolls-Royce, windows down, passed by in front of him. Inside, the girl’s long hair fluttered gently in the breeze—like she’d stepped out of a painting.
Quiet. Beautiful.
The man’s fingers drummed lightly against the window as he murmured, “Pretty.”