She scrambled to the pile, yanked the bags aside, shoved the cardboard box away. Beneath it was a thick wool blanket—expensive, even drenched.
She touched it.
It was warm.
It moved.
Her heart stopped.
She peeled back the blanket—
And a tiny, desperate cry sliced through the night.
Lily collapsed into the mud.
A baby.
Someone had thrown away a baby.
Shock lasted only a heartbeat. Then instinct took over.
She gathered the infant into her arms. His face was red from cold and crying, his small body shaking violently.
“No… no… who would do this?” she whispered, her voice trembling harder than her hands.
Without thinking, she removed her own jacket and wrapped it around him, pressing him against her thin chest.
“I’ve got you,” she murmured. “You’re not alone.”
His cries softened slightly.
As she adjusted the blanket, her fingers brushed something cold around his neck—a heavy silver chain with a rectangular plate.
Lightning flashed.
The engraving gleamed clearly.
WILLOUGHBY.
That name wasn’t ordinary.
It belonged to skyscrapers, news headlines, charity galas. The Willoughby family owned half the city.
Lily swallowed.
How could a child from that world end up in garbage?