Chapter 2 - The Weight of Gold
Dr. Harris had not needed to finish the sentence. Six months. Maybe less if the stress continued to tear at his chest like a wild animal trapped behind bone.
Owen had walked out of that hospital into the autumn drizzle without his umbrella, letting the cold water soak through his expensive wool suit. He didn't care about the rain. He cared about the silence. His empire—Faulkner Global Enterprises—spanned three continents, employed over forty thousand people, and was worth billions of dollars. Yet, as he stood in front of his massive glass-and-steel headquarters that afternoon, he realized his legacy was nothing more than numbers on a screen.
No wife. No children. No one to inherit the fortune except greedy distant relatives and opportunistic board members who were already circling like vultures.
His physician had warned him against strenuous activity, but here he was, walking through the forgotten, industrial backstreets of the city’s east side, searching for something he couldn't name.
Then he saw her.
Kneeling in the mud, Owen reached out a gloved hand and gently touched the hem of her oversized coat. The fabric was rough, coarse, and freezing.
“My name is Owen,” he said softly, ignoring the sharp, tearing pain in his chest. “And you are Hannah.”
“Everybody calls me a stray,” she muttered, not pulling away, though her small frame trembled. “Except the lady who used to run the laundry. But she went away.”
“Well, strays need homes,” Owen said. He stood up slowly, the world spinning for a fraction of a second before steadying. He scooped her up into his arms. She was alarmingly light, like a bundle of dry twigs. She didn't fight him; she just rested her chin against his shoulder, her breath warm and shallow against his neck.
He carried her out of the alley toward his waiting Maybach. His driver, Marcus, a broad-shouldered ex-military man, stared through the rearview mirror with a look of profound shock as Owen opened the door and placed the little girl inside.
“Sir... is that—”
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“Drive to St. Jude’s Private Medical Center, Marcus,” Owen commanded, his voice carrying the absolute authority that had built an empire. “And call Dr. Vance. Tell him we are bringing in a patient for a full pediatric evaluation. Immediately.”
“Yes, sir.” Marcus pressed the accelerator, and the luxury sedan glided silently into the night.
