A sudden disturbance at the restaurant entrance snapped him back. The maître d’, Andrew — normally composed beyond measure — was blocking someone.
“Sir, you can’t just walk in here!” Andrew insisted.
Ethan looked up, expecting paparazzi.
Instead, he saw a little girl.
She couldn’t have been older than seven. Her once-yellow dress was stained gray with dirt. Her sweater hung in threads. Tangled brown hair framed a thin face. But her eyes — large, dark, piercing — carried something far older than childhood.
She slipped past Andrew and walked straight to Ethan’s table.
A hush fell over the dining room.
Her small hands pressed against the white tablecloth, leaving smudged prints. She held his gaze without flinching.
“What’s your name?” Ethan asked softly, surprising himself.
“Sophia,” she replied. Her voice was steady. “And you’re Ethan Reynolds. The hotel king.”
Ethan almost smiled. “Seems I’m famous everywhere.”
“Even on the streets,” she said calmly. “You learn a lot there. Things rich people don’t see.”
“What do you want, Sophia? Food? Money?”
Her eyes flickered toward his untouched plate. Hunger was obvious — but she didn’t beg.