Chapter 2 - The Ghost in the Master Wing"Get a doctor. Now."
Robert didn't care about the mud ruining his bespoke Italian leather shoes. He scooped the unconscious girl into his arms, shocked by how terrifyingly light she was—like carrying a bundle of dry sticks wrapped in wet fabric.
By the time he burst through the grand mahogany front doors of the mansion, the household was in an uproar. Maids dropped silver trays; the head housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, gasped, clutching her pearls.
"Mr. Miller! Good heavens, what is that—where did you find—"
"Prepare the Rosewood Suite immediately," Robert ordered, his voice cutting through the panic with absolute authority. "Call Dr. Vance. Tell him if he isn't here in fifteen minutes, I'll buy his hospital and fire him."
Up the grand curved staircase Robert strode, his heart hammering against his ribs in a rhythm it hadn't known since that fateful night ten years ago.
The Rosewood Suite was untouched, preserved like a museum wing. It was the room Elena had loved, filled with the soft creams and golds she favored, though she had never lived to see it finished. Robert laid Anna gently onto the pristine white goose-down mattress. The contrast between the filthy, shivering child and the opulent sheets was stark, almost brutal.
Mrs. Gable rushed in with a stack of heated towels and fresh linens. "Sir, you can't possibly let a street urchin—she could have lice, diseases, God knows what—"
"Look at her face, Gable," Robert interrupted, turning around. His expression was dangerously calm, yet his eyes blazed with a desperate intensity.
Mrs. Gable hesitated, stepping closer to the bed. As she wiped the grime and wet hair away from Anna’s pale forehead, the housekeeper’s breath hitched. She stumbled backward, gripping the bedpost.
"Sweet mother of..." Mrs. Gable whispered, color draining from her face. "The eyes... and the chin... Mr. Miller, she looks exactly like—"
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"I know what she looks like," Robert said, his jaw tightening until the muscle ticked. "Help me strip these wet clothes off before the hypothermia takes her. We're fighting for time."
As they worked swiftly to warm the child, Robert’s gaze drifted to the antique mahogany dresser across the room. There, half-hidden behind a silver photo frame, sat a locked velvet box. Inside it was a faded photograph of Elena smiling in the sun, holding a silver locket—a locket identical to the cheap, tarnished brass chain currently visible around Anna's trembling neck.
