Three little girls had no idea that one innocent sentence was about to shatter everything I believed about my past.

She froze.

The air seemed to leave her lungs in a sharp, audible gasp. She slowly turned her head, her emerald eyes widening as they met mine. For a long, terrifying second, neither of us moved.

"Ethan?" she whispered, her voice trembling so violently it barely carried across the grass.

"It's me," I said, taking two cautious steps forward, keeping my hands visible.

The three little girls stopped playing and looked between us. The middle triplet—the one who had spoken to me in the park—squinted her eyes in recognition. "Mommy! That's the man with the compass!"

Camila stood up instantly, her face pale as snow. She looked around the empty lawn in sheer panic before grabbing her daughters' hands. "Girls, go inside. Go to the playroom right now. Tell Nanny Sarah I'll be there in a minute."

"But Mommy—"

"Now, sweethearts! Please!" Camila urged, her voice laced with an edge of desperation that made the children obey immediately. They hurried up the stone steps of the terrace and disappeared through the French doors.

Once the glass doors closed, Camila turned back to me. Her hands were shaking.

"How did you find me? What are you doing here?" she breathed, running a hand over her forehead. "Ethan, you can't be here. If my father's security sees you—"

"I don't care about your father's security, Camila," I said, walking closer until I could see the tiny specks of gold in her green eyes. "Yesterday, three little girls stopped me in the park. They saw my arm. They told me their mother had the exact same tattoo."

Camila looked down at her left forearm. She was wearing a thick gold cuff bracelet that covered her inner wrist. Slowly, with trembling fingers, she unlatched the clasp and slid the metal aside.

There it was. The faded black ink. The broken compass, identical to mine.

"They are seven years old, Camila," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "Math was never my strong suit, but eight years ago... Seattle... you left without leaving a number, a last name, or a trace."