The camera would have whipped toward the curb, where an old woman stood with a worn violin and a few coins in an open case. Her hands trembled. Her eyes did not. They were locked on him.
“Just one song,” she said softly.
Damian lifted a hand with cold irritation.
“Stop that noise.”
She drew the bow once more. A rough scrape… then a final gentle note.
Everything changed.
Color drained from Damian’s face. A memory struck him so hard he staggered half a step. One tear formed before he could stop it.
“You remember it,” the woman whispered.
“No,” he answered too quickly.
She stepped closer.
“I played it every night… my son.”
The bodyguards exchanged looks. Damian stared at her as if the world had tilted.
Then she opened an old cloth bundle and pulled out a faded photograph.
A younger woman holding a violin beside a little boy in bed.
The boy was Damian.
His hand began to shake.
“…Mother?” he whispered.
Before she could answer, tires screamed beside the curb. A black luxury car stopped hard.
The rear door opened.
A silver-haired man stepped out—Damian’s father. Powerful. Controlled. Untouchable.
Until he saw the violin.
Then he went pale.
The old woman pointed at him.
“Ask him.”
His father stepped forward, voice hard as steel.
“Get in the car.”
The old woman looked at Damian one last time.
“Why did you bury an empty coffin?”
Damian turned slowly toward his father in horror.
The old man had no answer.
