Snow fell like shattered glass under the yellow glow of streetlights. It was 2 a.m. in Central Park, the kind of night when even the city’s pulse seemed to stop. Ethan Cross tightened the collar of his cashmere coat as he stepped out of his black Bentley. The billionaire tech founder had left a tense board meeting and told his driver to take the long route—he needed silence, not spreadsheets.
But silence ended when he saw her.
At the edge of the frozen pond lay a woman, motionless, her arms curled protectively around two tiny bundles. For a second, Ethan thought he was imagining it. Then one of the bundles moved—a faint whimper pierced the air. He ran.
“Hey! Can you hear me?” he shouted, kneeling beside her. The woman’s lips were blue, her hair crusted with ice. She was young—early twenties maybe—and wore nothing but a thin sweater. Between her trembling arms, two infants squirmed beneath a torn blanket.
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