—Sir, do you need a maid? I can do anything… my sister is hungry.

Her voice trembled, but her eyes reflected a fierce desperation. The baby strapped to her back stirred in its sleep, its thin lips opening and closing as if dreaming of food.

Multimillionaire Charles Whitmore was halfway to his front door when he froze. He had no shortage of strangers approaching his mansion’s doors; desperate people turned to each other, looking for work, charity, or a quick favor. But something about this girl stopped him in his tracks.

It wasn’t just her worn-out dress, it was the dirt stains on her cheeks. It was the mark.

A small, half-lip shaped cramp mark on the side of your neck.

Charles’s chest tightened and the memory hit him so hard he almost lost his breath.

“Where did you get that?” she asked in a higher-pitched voice than she intended.

The girl spurtedly touched the dick. “This? I was born with this.”

Her words took him back twenty years: to a stormy night, to a young horned mother, to a returned baby and a faded breast. He had seen that same mark before.

Charles approached, scrutinizing her face. “What’s your name?”

“Elepa,” she said cautiously. “And this is my sister, Lily.” She shifted the sleeping baby and added, “Our parents… that’s it. I’ll take any job. I can clean, cook, whatever.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Logic warned him to be cautious, to ask questions, to keep his distance, but only then did he tell her it wasn’t a coincidence.

“Eпtra,” he said finally.

Elepa said, looking at the huge mass behind him. “Sir, I… don’t want to cause trouble.”

“You’re not,” Charles replied, as he led her toward the entrance steps.

Inside, the warmth and light seemed to overwhelm her. She clutched the straps of the baby carrier that held Lily, her gaze fixed on the crystal chandeliers, the pale marble floors, and the gilt-framed paintings.

The maid brought tea, but Elepa didn’t even taste it. She simply lowered her gaze.

Charles watched her in silence before speaking again. “Elepa… tell me about your parents.”

His voice softened. “Mr. and I had a car accident when I was twelve. After that, it was just me and my stepmom. She wasn’t… nice. When I turned sixteen, I left. Lily died last year; she’s my stepsister. Her dad’s not on the list. We’ve been moving around, looking for jobs.”

Her story fit together like the pieces of a puzzle Charles had kept for decades: one that began with his own sister, Margaret.

Margaret had disappeared at the age of seventeen, the result of a broken relationship and the stifling expectations of her wealthy family. Years later, she received rumors that she had had a child, but all her searches proved fruitless.

Until now.

—Elepa… —Her voice trembled—. Do you know your mother’s name?

She nodded. “Margaret.”

Charles felt the room tilt. It was her. This girl—this slim, married, determined young woman—was sober.

He wanted to tell her right then and there. To hold her and promise that she wouldn’t go hungry again. But something in his wary gaze told him that she wouldn’t trust his repeated generosity. He’d survived too long.

So he chose another path.

“You can work here,” he said. “Room and board. A salary. And… Lily will be well taken care of, too.”

His relief was immediate, but he quickly concealed it, simply nodding. “Thank you, sir.”

That night, Charles stood in the doorway of the guest room, watching Elea tuck Lily into the baby the staff had rushed to prepare. The baby stirred, and Elea patted her back gently, humming the baby’s name.

The vision shattered him. Not because he pitied her, but because he saw Margaret in every movement, in every glance.

He promised himself he would find out the whole truth about what had happened to his sister. And when the time came, he would tell Elea what it really was.

But fate had only the means of accelerating the truth.

It all started with a phone call.

Two weeks into her life as Whitmore’s wife, Elea was sweeping the long hallway where Charles’s private phone rang. Normally, the household staff took care of such things, but the butler wasn’t, and Elea, hesitantly but diligently, answered.

“Is this… Eleпa?” the woman’s voice gasped, trembling and loud.

“Yes… what is it?”

The voice trembled. “Tell Charles that Margaret is alive.”

Elepa froze. “What? What the…?”

The line was cut.

The pulse pounded in his ears. The man didn’t say anything to him, except for the faint, painful memory of his mother’s voice saying it for once, like a secret. He let the moment pass, not knowing what to do, and went back to work.

But Charles realized his distraction that night.

—Elepa, something’s bothering you—she said with her head. —Cut it for me.

She nodded, and then repeated the message word for word. The teapot slipped from her hand and hit the china.

“How did you dream?” he asked.

As if I had been crying. And my name knew.

Charles abruptly got up and put down the table. Moments later, Elea heard his deep voice from her study, followed by the sound of breaking glass.

That night, he dreamed of a woman’s silhouette in the rain, with her arms outstretched, calling her by her name.

The next day, Charles’s demeanor changed. He circled her more, asking her about her family, about his mother’s habits, about the things she might have missed. Ella responded cautiously, not knowing why, seeming almost… annoyed.

Finally, on a rainy afternoon, he asked her to accompany him to the library.

“I owe you the truth,” he said, his hands tightly clenched. “The woman on that call, Margaret, is my sister. And… she’s your mother.”

The words hit him hard. “It’s impossible. My mother is dead.”

Charles’s voice broke. “I felt it too. I was twenty-two years old. But she left this life—me, this other family—because she was pregnant. With you.”

Elepa shook her head and stepped back. “No. My mother… she was poor. She worked in a bakery. She…”

“She did,” Charles snapped softly. “She left everything to raise you and get you away from this world. I searched for you, Elea. For both of us. But I was always too late.”

Elepa’s knees were shaking. She sank into the leather chair, turning her head over and over.

“If it’s true,” she gasped, “why do you hire me as a maid? Why don’t you tell me?”

“Because you wouldn’t have believed me,” she said. “You’ve been surviving alone for years. I needed time… time for you to see that I wasn’t here to take everything from you. I just wanted to give you back what I stole from you.”

Lily thought. “And my sister?”

Charles’s gaze softened. “She’s also of the same blood. She’ll never lack anything else.”

The silence lasted longer between them.

Three cars later, the front gate opened. Charles had been pacing for hours, waiting for news from the private investigator he’d hired to trace the call.

When the butler opened the door, a thin, soaked woman stood there, her face pale and her eyes wide open. Elea, hearing voices, went out into the corridor and stopped breathing.

It was like looking at yourself in a mirror of twenty-five years.

“Elepa,” the woman whispered in a trembling voice. “My baby.”

Elea’s legs propelled her forward before she could even get in. The embrace was fierce, desperate, years of isolation crumbling away in one unbroken breath.

Margaret’s story unfolded in fragments: her controlling fiancé, her shame at dragging the girl down into poverty, her fear that Charles’s wealth would smother her daughter’s spirit. She had hidden, changed names, and moved cities every few months.

Then, a few months ago, she became seriously ill. She finally realized she had to return Elea to the only family who could protect her.

Charles listened to her, his eyes glazed over. When Margaret finally remained silent, she said only, “She’s safe now. Both of you.”

Weeks passed, and life at the Whitmore farm changed. Ella no longer worked as a servant; she was part of the family. Lily thrived, strolling through the pale flats, pampered by Charles and Margaret.

But later, Elea found herself in the same place where she had first approached Charles, hugging Lily, rubbing her pink cheeks, asking for a job. She realized that that moment had been the turning point, the moment when hunger, desperation, and the kindness of the unknown had opened the doors to a life she had never imagined.

And since she was no longer the girl who was begging at the doors, she promised herself that she would forget what she felt, and that she would stay away from someone who was in the same place as her once.