The homeless boy looked at the billionaire and said, “Your daughter isn’t going blind.
Your wife has been poisoning her.”
The sentence landed with such force that Marcus Bennett felt his body go cold before his mind could even make sense of it.
He had spent most of his adult life in rooms where men lied for money, lied for power, lied for survival.
He had built a fortune by seeing weakness before other people recognized it in themselves.
He knew how to read fear, greed, ambition, and betrayal faster than most people read a contract.
But on that suffocating afternoon in Accra, with his seven-year-old daughter sitting beside him on a worn bench and gripping a child’s white cane in both hands, Marcus realized there was one thing he had never learned to read clearly: danger inside his own home.
Lila leaned against him in her thick sweater, too warm for the weather, her face tipped toward light she could barely process anymore.
