The footage looped.
A man—hooded, gloved, precise—walked through Elira’s old apartment like he belonged there. He moved with purpose, headed straight for the locked drawer where she’d kept her prenatal files, her ultrasound images, her secrets.
Elira couldn’t breathe.
She rewound it again.
And again.
And again.
“Who the hell are you…” she whispered.
Damien stood behind her, hands clenched into fists. “You said you never gave that location to anyone but your doctor.”
“I didn’t. I never did. And she died—six months after Amira was born.”
His jaw tightened. “You think that’s connected?”
“I don’t think anymore,” Elira whispered. “I know.”
Damien reached for the screen, pausing the video on the intruder’s half-shadowed face. “This—this is the same man I saw at the gala in Geneva. He
