The opera ended with thunderous applause, but John didn’t clap. Not even a nod. He simply stood, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable as the velvet curtain fell and the audience around him rose in ovation.

  He didn’t care much for the opera. It was long, loud, and full of things he couldn’t relate to. Tragedy wrapped in violins, sung in words that were too pretty to be real. He was only here out of obligation, a social expectation for someone of his status. The rest of the night followed the same script: nod at donors, sip champagne, endure pointless small talk.

  Now, finally free, he stepped out into the cold drizzle of the night, the doorman offering an umbrella he didn’t take.

  “Sir, your car will—”

  “I’ll walk,” John muttered.

  The rain felt better than the spotlight. It didn’t care who he was or how much he was worth. It just fell. Honest, quiet, and indifferent.

  He walked past the rows of high-end cars, turned the corner, and slipped into an alley out of sheer instinct, one of those narrow, forgotten spaces that still smelled like the past.

  And that’s when he saw her.

  Huddled beside a stack of flattened cardboard boxes, soaked through and barely conscious, was a girl. Young. Maybe twenty. She was shaking from cold, or fear, or both.

  John stopped.

  Something in his chest moved, an old feeling, sharp and familiar.

  He crouched down slowly, keeping his voice low. “Hey... You okay?”

  Her eyes fluttered open. Dark and distant. She tried to push herself up but failed.

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  “I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said. “But you shouldn’t be here. Not like this.”

  She blinked. Wet lashes, pale lips. “I’m just... resting.”

  “Looks like you’re losing that battle.” He took off his coat, the expensive wool one custom-made for winter galas, and draped it around her shoulders.

  “I’m not a beggar,” she whispered, as if trying to hold on to the last shred of dignity she had left.

  “I didn’t say you were.”

  She flinched at a noise, maybe a car backfiring in the distance, and curled in on herself. John exhaled slowly, fighting the impulse to walk away. But he couldn’t. Not this time.

  “Look,” he said, “I have a car waiting. I can get you somewhere warm. You don’t have to talk. Just... don’t freeze to death tonight.”

  The girl looked up at him, searching his face for a catch, for cruelty, or pity.

  But there was none. Just tired concern.

  Finally, she gave a slight nod.

  The ride was quiet. She stared out the window, still clutching his coat. “My name’s John, John Newton,” John muttered without any emotion or warmth.

  “I’m Page Adams,” she responded quietly. The rest of the trip to the mansion was mired in silence.

  When they arrived at his mansion, all sharp edges and glass walls glowing faintly against the rain, she hesitated.

  “It’s not a trap,” John said, reading her tension. “You’re free to leave whenever you want. But I’d rather you get warm first.”

  He led her through the main hall, sleek and modern but dimly lit, almost as if it respected the mood she brought in.

  “Mina!” he called. The head housekeeper appeared within seconds.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “This is Page. Get her a warm shower. Something clean to wear. And a place to rest.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mina gave the girl a kind smile. “Come, dear.”

  She stood still for a beat longer, then followed.

  John watched them disappear down the hall, then ran a hand through his wet hair.

  He didn’t know what he was doing. Only that something about her, broken, quiet, yet still holding herself together, felt all too familiar.