~16 YEARS AGO~
St. Ann's Catholic Church had always been a beacon of charity. Each year, donations poured in from the faithful, a fraction of which went to the orphanage under its care. But in that year—the year Father Andrew served as chaplain—something shifted. The donations swelled, yes, but so did the number of children passing through the gates of St. Ann's Home.
Accidents, fires, tragedies without end. Some had been abandoned on street corners, some pulled from the wreckage of mangled cars. They came between the ages of five and nine, carrying wounds far older than their years. The sound of their cries haunted the stone halls, but none pierced Father Andrew's heart more than the silence of one little girl.
She was seven, pale and frail, her skin stretched over bone, her eyes sunken with hunger and terror. She had been dropped off by her uncle two years prior, a man who claimed he could not feed her, then vanished from their lives without leaving a name or word behind. Her parents, she said—or rather, what was whispered in hushed tones by neighbors—had been murdered. A gruesome crime. The killers were never found.
The girl did not play, did not laugh, did not even look at grown men without trembling. Something in her had been hollowed out the night her parents were taken, and Father Andrew knew it. Whatever made children—children—had been stripped away from her.
He begged the parish for permission to move his residence from the rectory into the orphanage itself. He wanted to be near her, to chip away at the wall of silence she had built. It took months before she spoke her first words. And when she did, they were words that would follow him to his grave:
"There was a man with a gun. He harmed Mommy and Daddy."
Her voice was so small, so careful, as though she feared the truth itself. But she repeated it. Again and again. Five times in the weeks that followed.
Father Andrew took her words to his superiors. They dismissed him. Trauma, the doctors said. She doesn't know what she's saying. The mind invents what it cannot bear to face.
But Father Andrew knew better. Children, he often said, were the most unfiltered version of humanity. They had no talent for deception. And this child—this haunted little girl—was telling him the truth.
Against orders, he went above the Church's silence and contacted the police.
The next day, a black SUV pulled up to the orphanage. Three men stepped out, dressed in suits that did not belong in a place of poverty. They smiled too broadly, their words rehearsed: they wished to adopt her.
But when the girl saw them, she screamed. She clung to the iron bedframe in her dormitory and cried out that the man who killed her parents dressed just like them. Father Andrew refused their request. The men left, their faces stiff, but their silence was more threatening than anger.
In desperation, Father Andrew called his younger sister, begging her to adopt the girl. She agreed—but before the papers could be signed, the Diocese sent Father Andrew a transfer order. No explanation, no appeal. He was to leave St. Ann's at once.
On the morning of his departure, he stood at the gates, his suitcase in hand, and saw the black SUV return. The men stepped out, polished smiles in place. This time, they were not denied.
The girl fought them, her small arms thrashing, her screams echoing down the stone courtyard. She reached for Father Andrew, crying out his name, but the priest was held back by two parish staff. Tears blurred his vision as the car door slammed shut, drowning her cries into silence.
And as the SUV rolled away, Father Andrew knew with a bone-deep certainty that he had failed her—not just as a priest, but as a man sworn to protect the innocent.
~The Present~
The sun sat high over Beverly Hills, spilling its golden warmth over the white façades and glass towers of Moretti Homes' headquarters. The plaza in front of the skyscraper bustled with movement—executives striding in, assistants carrying coffee, chauffeurs idling their cars. Inside, the marble-floored lobby gleamed like a cathedral of wealth. People streamed through the revolving doors, badges flickering under security scanners.
And in the middle of all that life, one man sat perfectly still.
He was shabby against the shine, a stark figure in black tailored pants and a black t-shirt with a white clerical collar—a priest's uniform, though well-worn. His hands rested on a battered leather satchel. His eyes, pale and restless, kept flicking to the doors. For hours he had been there, simply watching. When the guards had approached, he had said only:
"I'm waiting for someone."
No one pressed him after that.
Father Andrew had been waiting so long his back ached. In his hands he held a small, frayed photograph. He stared at it until it blurred: a man with dark eyes, the same man who had been all over the news. And next to him, the girl—the girl Father Andrew had once sworn to protect. His heart clenched every time her face flashed on television, her name dragged through the mud. Lies. All of it. Lies he had come here to help undo.
He didn't know that the man he sought, Vincent Moretti, had not set foot in the building for over a month. Not since the media frenzy had turned into a siege.
He was about to lower his head again when the doors hissed open. He looked up—and froze.
There she was. The woman he had seen in countless newspapers, at Vincent's side. Taller now, elegant, purposeful. He didn't hesitate; his legs betrayed his years and moved before he thought. He lurched forward, clutching the photograph like a talisman.
"Miss—"
Security intercepted him before he could reach her. The woman didn't even glance back, striding towards the elevators with a speed born of habit. Father Andrew's voice cracked as he shouted:
"This is about Vincent Moretti!"
The words sliced through the lobby's chatter. She stopped.
***
Vivian Holman had been through her share of crises in Moretti Homes, but this morning was worse than most. The finance department had flagged a $10 million discrepancy. The IT team was still tracing for hacks, but Vivian had already ruled that out. This smelled like an insider. Someone with access. Someone bold enough to siphon funds when the company was already under siege.
Moretti Homes was fraying, and she could feel the last threads slipping.
She stepped out of the Maybach, her heels clicking sharply against the marble as she entered the lobby. Her tailored navy dress was armor; her posture, a weapon. Years ago, as a secretary, she had been nervous around boardrooms and men like Vincent. Now she carried herself like a general—his general—cutting through the chaos with quiet authority.
A scuffle sounded behind her. She ignored it at first. Not worth her attention. Until a voice, hoarse but commanding, called out:
"This is about Vincent Moretti."
She stopped mid-step. Slowly, she turned.
An older man stood there, nearly sixty, his collar marking him as clergy. His eyes were sharp despite the tremor in his hands. Something about the way he looked at her made her stomach tighten.
"Who are you?" she asked. Her tone wasn't unkind, but it carried the weight of command.
"I can't say that here," the man said, glancing at the security guards.
Vivian studied him for a heartbeat, then gestured for him to follow. One of the guards fell in behind them as she led the man into the elevator. No words passed between them as the numbers climbed to the fortieth floor.
They stepped out into the executive wing—glass walls, muted carpets, the hum of power. Vivian's eyes flicked through the conference room doors as they walked past: men and women in suits whispering over documents, a company on the edge. She would deal with them later.
She opened the door to Conference Room C, a quiet space at the far end of the hall. The guard ushered the man in and left, closing the door behind them.
"Please, sit," Vivian said, though she remained standing, one hand gripping the back of a chair while the other drummed lightly against the glass table.
The priest lowered himself slowly into a chair at the far end. His fingers tightened on the photograph.
"I am Father Andrew," he said finally.
Vivian arched a brow. "If you're here for a donation from Vincent Moretti, you'll have to go through the proper channels," she said, hoping that was all this was.
But Father Andrew's eyes flared—not with anger, but with disappointment.
"I do not come for your money," he said. His voice cracked at the end of the sentence. He bowed his head for a moment, silent. When he looked up again, his eyes were wet and his voice steadier. "I have come to help right a wrong I should have stopped years ago."
Vivian's fingers stopped drumming. "What wrong?"
"I know the men behind this have the authorities in their pockets," he said. "But Vincent Moretti… he has the power to end this."
"End what?" Her patience was thinning.
"Jennifer Lawrence."
Vivian's heart stumbled. Instead of fear, curiosity surged.
"I need to tell the truth about that girl," Father Andrew said. "And I won't speak to anyone but him."
Vivian studied him for a long beat, then nodded once. She picked up her phone and dialed.
"You have reached Moretti Estate," came the familiar voice on the other end.
"Carlos, I need your help on something," she said.
"Oh, Vivian. How nice of you to call," Carlos replied, teasing, but she heard the shift in his tone as she explained.
"There's someone here to see Vincent. The information he has is vital."
Silence. Carlos's way of going serious.
"I'll make the arrangements," he said.
Vivian hung up.
"Thank you," Father Andrew whispered, wiping at his eyes.
"Father," Vivian said, her voice cool again. "When vital information like this is held by one person, it's a dangerous risk."
"I can't tell a soul," he said. "If they find me here, my life ends on the spot. And how do I know I can trust anyone else?"
"You trusted me enough to approach me," Vivian replied. "Odds are, you know exactly who I am."
Father Andrew said nothing. The lady had a point.
Vivian's phone buzzed. She answered, listened, and nodded. "Okay." She hung up.
"There's a car waiting outside for you," she said. "Security will see you out."
Father Andrew stood, his knees creaking. For the first time in years, he felt hope flicker. Maybe, just maybe, the girl he had failed could finally be saved.