The Egyptian wing is packed—noise bouncing off marble and glass, but one small figure at the far end freezes everything inside me.

She’s standing by the main exit, pressed against the wall, clutching a worn stuffed bunny. Dark hair. Pink dress. Eyes huge and scared.

And a man is reaching for her hand.

I flick a glance to the woman by the ticket counter — the nanny, I guess — head bent, scrolling her phone, oblivious.

The little girl doesn’t move toward the man. She stiffens. Her lips part like she might call for help, but nothing comes out.

That look in her eyes… that’s not recognition. That’s panic.

I cross the space before I can talk myself out of it. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s go find Daddy.” My voice is calm, but my pulse is sprinting.

I scoop her into my arms, and she clings like she’s been underwater too long, small fingers locking behind my neck.

Her breath comes in shallow bursts against my collarbone, and every tremor in her small frame ripples through me. I bend my head so my voice is just for her.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

For a long, suspended second, there’s only the noise of the crowd and the pounding of my own heart. Then her lips part, and in the faintest whisper—like a secret she’s not sure she should share—she says, “Ava.”

The name curls through me, unexpected and anchoring. “That’s a beautiful name,” I murmur, holding her just a fraction tighter.

When I glance back toward the crowd, the man in the hoodie is gone.

Then movement in my periphery—two bodyguards parting the sea of tourists, and between them, a man in a charcoal suit whose presence makes the air shift.

The second his eyes hit the girl in my arms, he stops dead.

All that power and polish hardens into something sharper — raw fear wrapped in control.

I start to explain, but Ava beats me to it, her voice is barely above a whisper.

“That man tried to take me,” she says, pointing to the hoodie disappearing through the crowd. “And this nice lady saved me.”

His arms are around her in an instant, holding her so tight she disappears against him. I adjust my grip on the bunny and say softly, “I found Ava near the exit—”

His head snaps toward me. “How do you know her name?”

“She told me,” I say, still confused by his reaction.

Something flickers in his eyes — disbelief, then something that looks like hope. “Ava hasn’t spoken to anyone but me in over a year.”

The moment stretches, thick with unspoken questions, as he lifts his gaze to the bodyguards.

One short nod, and they’re moving — all focus and force — toward the man in the hoodie.

When his attention comes back to me, the shift is disorienting. The hard edges soften, just barely.

His hand finds my wrist — warm, solid, firm — and he holds it there as if he’s deciding whether to let go.

“You saved my daughter’s life,” he growls, voice low enough to vibrate through my bones.

“I need you to come with me.”