He went to visit his daughter’s grave… but four shivering sisters claimed his child had sent them. And their mother knew secrets he never imagined.
The storm had thickened by the time Matthew Porter left James Anderson’s office. Rain smeared across the windshield in frantic strokes as the Maybach sliced through downtown traffic. Normally, Matthew reviewed market reports or dictated emails during transit, but now he sat rigid, fists clenched, mind spiraling.
Four children. Sleeping on concrete. Starving. Unprotected.
Jessica’s girls.
He pressed his palm against his forehead, feeling the edges of a headache born from grief and fury. He had spent ten years drowning in silence, functioning only because business demanded it. But now a single encounter in a cemetery had cracked the stone shell around his heart.
And what spilled out wasn’t weakness.
It was purpose.
When the Maybach pulled to a stop outside his penthouse building, he didn’t go inside. Instead, he told Thomas: “Stay ready. We’re not done.”
He rode the elevator up to the top floor, entered his home—a pristine museum of marble, glass, and loneliness—and headed straight to his late daughter’s old bedroom.
He hadn’t opened the door in seven years.
He stood there for a long moment with his hand on the knob, trembling. Then he whispered, “I’m trying, sweetheart,” and turned it.
The scent hit him first. Faint lavender. Sarah’s favorite. Her room was untouched: pale yellow walls; shelves of books; her stuffed unicorn perched on her pillow; drawings pinned to a corkboard. Life frozen mid-breath.
Matthew stepped inside, feeling like he was entering a chapel. He sat on the edge of her bed and exhaled shakily.
“Jessica’s girls,” he murmured. “They’re alone. They’re scared. They have no one.”
The silence answered him. And yet, he felt—just for a moment—the softest brush of peace. As though if Sarah were still here, she would tug his sleeve and say, Dad… help them.
His phone buzzed. James.
Matthew stepped into the hallway before answering.
“Tell me you have something.”
James cleared his throat. “More than something. Cohen found the paper trail.”
Matthew’s pulse quickened.
“Jessica did have survivor benefits,” James continued. “A substantial amount. Enough to support all four girls for years. But—”
“He stole it,” Matthew finished darkly.
“Every penny,” James confirmed. “Cashed out in small increments. He’s also collecting welfare under multiple aliases. And there’s more. Cohen found evidence that Victor—Malikov—used the girls’ Social Security numbers for credit lines.”
Matthew felt sick.
“And you can prove it?”
“Oh, we can more than prove it,” James said. “But you need to tread carefully. He still has legal guardianship. Any misstep and he’ll weaponize the system.”
Matthew stared out the window. Autumn rain blurred the city into a smear of gray watercolor. “How long until we can get the girls out?”
“If we move fast? A week. But only if we gather everything. CPS will need cause. I need photographs, statements, evidence from the apartment—”
“I’ll get them,” Matthew said immediately.
“No,” James warned. “You barging in again could spook him. Or worse—you have a public image to worry about. Let Cohen do it. Or let the authorities handle the inspection.”
Matthew clenched his jaw. “A week is too long.”
“Matthew—”
But Matthew had already ended the call.
He went back into Sarah’s room and sat again on her bed. He looked at the shelf where Sarah had lined up her favorite books alphabetically. He remembered her voice—soft but fierce—arguing with him about why some characters deserved better endings.
He whispered, “What would you want me to do?”
The answer echoed in his chest.
Protect them.
He stood, turned off the light, and closed the door gently behind him.
Matthew didn’t sleep that night. And when the sun rose, ghostlike against the steel skyline, he was already dressed in dark slacks, a sweater, and an old jacket that Sarah used to joke made him look like a “cool dad.”
He wasn’t going as the CEO of an eleven-billion-dollar empire.
He was going as a man who owed a debt.
He found Thomas waiting in the garage. They drove in heavy silence back to 4th Street. Matthew watched the buildings deteriorate block by block—until the city’s wealth and glamour felt like a cruel joke.
They parked a few buildings away. “Stay here,” Matthew told Thomas. “If anything goes sideways, call James. And the police.”
Thomas nodded once. “Be careful, sir.”
Matthew walked down the steps to the basement apartment, breath fogging in the cold. He paused at the door, hearing muffled arguing inside. A man’s voice. Then a child’s yelp.
Matthew’s blood turned to ice.
He didn’t knock.
He threw the door open.
The scene inside hit him like a punch.
Victor towered over Emma, one arm raised, the other gripping a beer bottle. Abby was crying against the wall. Sophie and Lily huddled together behind the hanging bedsheet.
“HEY!” Matthew barked, voice booming with a force he hadn’t used in years.
Victor froze, turning toward him with drunken confusion that curved into hostility. “You again? I told you—”
Matthew crossed the room in three long strides.
“No more,” he growled.
Victor laughed bitterly. “You think you can walk in and—”
He didn’t get to finish. Matthew grabbed the bottle out of his hand so fast Victor stumbled. The bottle smashed against the wall.
“This ends,” Matthew said, stepping between Victor and the girls. “Today.”
“You think you’re a hero?” Victor spat. “These kids are mine.”
“They were never yours,” Matthew said coldly. “And they sure as hell aren’t staying with you.”
Victor lunged.
Matthew dodged. Years of boxing with a private trainer kicked in. He shoved Victor back with controlled strength—not enough to truly harm him, but more than enough to send him crashing into a pile of cans.
Victor scrambled up, panting. “I’ll call the cops! I’ll say you attacked me! They’ll believe me! They always believe the guardian!”
Matthew pulled out his phone and dialed.
James answered instantly.
“What happened?”
“Victor is violent,” Matthew said loudly, making sure the phone captured the drunken slurs behind him. “I have the children here. You need to send CPS. Police. Anyone.”
Victor froze when he realized what Matthew was doing.
“You—you tricked me,” he hissed.
“No,” Matthew said. “You revealed yourself.”
There was a sharp pounding at the stairwell. Then a voice:
“Police! Open up!”
Victor’s face drained of color.
Matthew stepped back, motioning the girls behind him. “Time to answer for what you’ve done.”
The apartment became a storm of uniforms, flashing lights, and urgent voices. Officers took photos. A female detective crouched beside the children, speaking softly. Victor was shoved against the wall, handcuffed and cursing.
Matthew stood just outside the door, giving his statement calmly and clearly. He directed officers to the credit card statements James had uncovered, the survivor benefit reports, the condition of the home.
By the time Victor was dragged up the stairs and loaded into a cruiser, the girls were clinging to one another like shipwreck survivors.
An officer approached Matthew. “Mr. Porter, CPS will take temporary custody. As the stepfather is under arrest and the mother is deceased, the children will likely be placed in emergency foster care until we—”
“No,” Emma said suddenly. She stepped forward, trembling but determined. “Please. Don’t send us away. We want to stay with… with him.” She pointed to Matthew. “He’s Sarah’s dad.”
The officer hesitated. “Legally, that’s complicated. Mr. Porter has no familial connection.”
“He does,” Abby whispered. “Mommy said he’s the good man.” She touched Matthew’s sleeve gently. “Mommy said Sarah picked him.”
Matthew went still.
The officer exhaled. “CPS will ask where you want to go. I can put Mr. Porter’s address on the paperwork as preferred placement, pending review.”
Emma looked up at Matthew, terrified. “Will you come for us? I mean… will you actually come?”
Matthew knelt, meeting her eyes. “I won’t leave you,” he said. His voice broke on the last word. “Not ever.”
The officer nodded. “All right. Let’s get the paperwork started.”
As they led the girls to the waiting van, Abby broke away and ran to Matthew, hugging his leg tightly.
“You’re not broken anymore,” she said into his coat. “Sarah told Mommy you just needed someone.”
Matthew swallowed the sob rising in his throat and crouched to hug her properly.
“Maybe she was right,” he whispered.
And as the van drove away, Matthew stood in the cold November rain—no longer a man waiting to die, but a man reborn with purpose.
For the first time in ten years, he felt something like hope.
He whispered to the stormy sky:
“Sarah… I’m doing this for you.”