"M… Auntie… my tummy hurts… I'm hungry…"
The heat was brutal, the kind that made grown‑ups flop down in exhaustion, yet three‑and‑a‑half‑year‑old Mia was still wrapped in a long‑sleeved fall shirt. The thing was so filthy its original color was basically a mystery, and the frayed collar and sleeves made it look even sadder. The oversized shirt hung on her tiny frame like some costume from a cheap street play—wrong season, wrong size, just wrong everywhere.
It had been a hand‑me‑down from Heather York’s kid. As the little burden taken in by the family, Mia had never touched anything new in her life.
Sweat rolled down her forehead, mixing with the dirt on her cheeks. From head to toe she looked like a grimy little stray kitten—one that was starving so badly her stomach felt glued to her backbone.
Grrrr—
Her belly betrayed her with a loud growl.
Heather York’s face instantly darkened. "Hungry, hungry, hungry—what are you, some ghost that died starving and came back for round two?!"
Her sharp voice cracked through the air like a whip. Mia flinched, shoulders shrinking up to her ears. As if adding fuel to the fire, her stomach growled again.
She stared up with big, watery eyes, voice trembling with a tiny hint of plea. "Auntie… Mia only ate once yesterday… and nothing today… My tummy really hurts… I’m so hungry…"
"Did you drop dead? No? Then hold it in!"
Heather York snapped before she even finished. She grabbed a grimy basin and tossed it at Mia’s feet. "Stir up the pig slop. Once you’re done, go feed the pigs. They’re hungry. What are you whining about!"
The fierce look on her face froze Mia’s words in her throat. She swallowed hard, hugged her empty stomach, and struggled to lift the basin that was almost bigger than she was.
Mitchell York walked in from the fields, sweat still on his neck. The moment he stepped inside, he asked, "Did the folks in the city send Mia’s living expenses?"
"They did ages ago. The guy’s pretty reliable—never late," Heather York replied with a squinty smile, her triangular eyes nearly disappearing.
Mitchell lowered his voice. "Since they sent money… why aren’t you letting the kid eat?"
"Relax. I still need her to work. I’m not letting her die."
If she disappeared, who would feed the pigs? Sweep the yard? Wash the dishes? Do all the chores…
As long as the people paying knew the kid was still breathing, the rest didn’t matter.
Heather hummed as she scooped several huge spoonfuls of milk powder into her own son’s bottle. It wasn’t her money, so she poured it like water.
Mia had just finished mixing the pig slop when she looked over and saw her little cousin—about her size—hugging a big bottle and gulping down milk like there was no tomorrow.
Her own stomach twisted even tighter. Hunger burned through her like a hollow ache that just wouldn’t stop.
She licked her cracked lips, her voice barely above a whisper. "Auntie… Mia finished the pig slop. Can I… maybe have a little water?"
Heather York shot her a vicious glare. "You feed the pigs yet? Work’s not even done and you’re already thinking about drinking? Useless little freeloader!"
Her temper flared instantly.
"All day long you just want to eat and drink. Eat then sleep, sleep then eat. Everything decent in this house ends up in your stomach. Honestly, even the pigs and dogs in the yard are more sensible than you!"
The more she talked, the angrier she got. She lifted her hand and smacked Mia a few times.
Heather hit hard. One slap left five burning red marks.
Mia whimpered, feeling pain shoot all through her tiny body. It hurt so much her bones felt like they were falling apart.
"Auntie… Mia was wrong! Please, please don’t hit… Mia will go feed the pigs now…"
She begged nonstop, tears rolling down her dirty cheeks, making her look even more pitiful.
"Still crying? You cry all day long! So unlucky!"
The louder Mia cried, the more furious Heather became. Her whole face twisted, those sharp triangular eyes filled with malice. She raised her hand and slapped Mia hard across the face.
The scrawny little girl couldn’t withstand that kind of force. She toppled to the ground, her cheek swelling up instantly, her head buzzing like a hive.
Mia felt something warm trickling from her nose. When it touched her lips, the metallic taste of blood hit her tongue.
"Oh no! She’s bleeding from her nose!" someone in the crowd shouted.
Heather didn’t even blink. She spat right at Mia’s face. "Tch! What a damn curse!"
Down by the village entrance, a luxury RV sat parked neatly by the roadside.
The path into the village was too narrow to drive in, so they had to walk the rest of the way.
The door swung open, and a handsome young man lounged inside with headphones on, gaming like he had nothing better to do. His long legs were kicked up on the opposite seat, the very picture of a spoiled rich brat.
He was the youngest of the Whitmore brothers, Ethan Whitmore. He’d just been fired from his old job for getting into a fight and was now basically bumming around with nothing to do.
"Mr. Whitmore, we’re here," his follower Ulrich Hartwell reminded him.
"Ethan Whitmore, are we there?" Ethan shoved his sunglasses up his nose bridge and glanced at the tiny village outside the window. The moment he saw it, his brows furrowed so tightly they could kill a mosquito, his whole face full of disdain.
"You sure this is the place?"
A mountain village tucked in some random valley, looking like it got stuck decades behind the outside world. Low houses, muddy roads, everything dull and gray.
"Followed the GPS. Can't be wrong." Ulrich Hartwell sounded pretty confident. He waved at him. "Mr. Whitmore, let's get out."
Ethan lowered his gaze to the pair of limited‑edition sneakers on his feet, his expression freezing for a moment. He really didn’t want to get out.
Old Master Whitmore’s roar suddenly echoed in his ears, carrying enough force to rattle a grown man.
"If you don't bring that child back this time, don't bother coming home!"
Ethan flinched like he’d been slapped awake and hurriedly pushed the door open to get out of the car.
It had rained a couple of days ago, and the mountain air was so humid you could squeeze water out of it. There were puddles everywhere on the road.
"Mr. Whitmore, watch your step—" Ulrich hadn’t even finished when Ethan’s foot sank straight into a mud pit. His limited‑edition sneakers died on the spot.
Ethan shot him a glare sharp enough to cut a man in half. "Why the hell didn’t you say it earlier!"
His shoes! His damn shoes!
Ulrich spread his hands innocently. "I warned you before we left. These village roads are terrible. But you weren’t listening at all."
Ethan’s face darkened to the point water could drip from it. He said nothing and strode toward the village.
Someone had sent an anonymous letter to Whitmore Manor, claiming that the child kidnapped years ago from his sister, Monica Whitmore, was hidden in this rundown place.
Old Master Whitmore slammed the table the moment he read it and ordered Ethan to come confirm it himself. If the child was really here, they were to bring them back at any cost.
Ever since the day the child was taken, the Whitmore Clan had never stopped searching. But Monica never recovered from the trauma—her mind completely collapsed, and she suddenly disappeared a year ago. There had been no news since.
Thinking of Monica’s pale, despairing face, Ethan felt something twist hard in his chest, a flicker of sorrow flashing deep in his eyes…
