The sound was not a simple sob, it was the sound of a heat taering, muffled against Mrs. hen cotton apron. Mina small body shook, her hands gripping the familiar fabric like it was thee only thing anchoring her to the world.
Pleas, no mama, pls do not let her, sh whispered, her words hot and wet the woman chest.
Mrs Chen-not her biological mother, but the only mother Mina had ever truly known--clutched her tighter, her own eyes burning with unshed tears.
Mina, darling, you have to be brave for me. Just for a little while.
A designer heel clicked sharply on the polished wood floor of the modest entryway, interrupting the grief.
Chloe Miller stood framed in the doorway, a vision of expensive, minimalist elegance. She wore a coat that cost more than the Chen family car, and a carefully calculatyed expression of maternalconceern that did not reach her heart. She carried a sleek leather handbag, not a suitcase, tthis wasv not a mother coming to embrace a lost childf, but a collector claiming a lost item.
That is quite enough, Mins, Chloe said, her voice perfectly modulated--the voice of a woman accustomed to speaking to gallery patrons, not crying children.