When he parked outside a weathered blue house, irritation surged through him. This was the place daring to waste his time.
He knocked hard.
Several moments later, the door opened.
Isabel Cruz stood in front of him wearing a stained apron, exhaustion carved into every feature. She looked nothing like the quiet woman who cleaned his office after dark. Her eyes widened the instant she recognized him.
“Mr. Alvarez?” she whispered.
“I came to find out why my office has been neglected,” Lucas answered coldly.
Before she could reply, a cry echoed from inside—not the sound of a tantrum, but genuine pain. Without thinking, Lucas stepped forward. Isabel tried to stop him, panic flashing in her eyes, but he had already crossed the doorway.
The house carried the smell of damp walls, cheap meals, and sickness.
On a thin mattress in the corner lay a young boy trembling beneath a worn blanket. His skin burned with fever. Every breath sounded strained. Somewhere behind a curtain, another infant whimpered softly.
Lucas felt his chest tighten.
