A Powerful Woman Pushes a Child into a Puddle — But the Birthmark on His Hand Leaves Her Stunned…
It had been five years since Isabella Reed’s life fell apart. Once known as a warm and gentle mother in Beverly Hills, she became someone entirely different after her only son, Liam, was kidnapped right outside their home. The police found no clues—no ransom note, no witness. It was as if he had vanished from the earth. Isabella spent millions searching, hiring private investigators, funding campaigns, and following every hint of hope, but nothing ever brought Liam back. Eventually, the grief hardened her. Her voice became colder, her world became smaller, and she hid her pain behind flawless couture and corporate power.

On a rainy afternoon in Manhattan, Isabella stepped out of her white Rolls-Royce in front of Le Verre, an elite restaurant favored by celebrities and executives. She wore a pristine white designer suit, tailored to perfection. Her posture, her steps—everything about her said control.

The sidewalks were crowded with umbrellas and rushing footsteps. She was just a few steps from the glass doors when a young boy, about nine years old, ran by holding a greasy paper bag of leftover food. His clothes were torn, soaked, and stained. His hair clung to his forehead. His eyes were tired—too tired for a child.

He slipped on the wet pavement, crashing into Isabella. Muddy rainwater splashed up the length of her white skirt.

Gasps came from the crowd.

Isabella stared down at him, her jaw tight. “Watch where you’re going,” she snapped.

“I—I’m sorry,” the boy stuttered, his voice trembling. “I just wanted the food. I didn’t mean to—”

“This outfit costs more than your life,” she said sharply, not caring who heard.

People turned. Some whispered. Others lifted their phones to record.

The boy stepped back, but Isabella’s anger surged. She pushed him, and he tumbled into a puddle, water soaking him entirely.

Shocked murmurs rippled through the crowd. Cameras clicked. Isabella Reed—fashion icon, philanthropist—caught on film shoving a homeless child.

But then, her breath caught.

On his left wrist, partly hidden under dirt and rainwater, was a small crescent-shaped birthmark…

Isabella blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Her perfectly trained composure cracked like thin glass.

That mark.

That tiny crescent—shaped like a sliver of moon just above the pulse point—was the one thing she had kissed every night when Liam was a baby. The one thing she had sworn she would recognize anywhere. The one thing the police had told her meant nothing because “birthmarks can be common.”

But this one wasn’t.

It was unique.

It was his.

Her breath hitched painfully. The world seemed to tilt, the rain suddenly too loud, the city too bright.

“Where… where did you get that?” Isabella whispered, her voice no longer cutting but trembling.

The boy scrambled to his feet, still shaking from the shove. “W-what?”

“Your hand.” Her voice broke. “Your wrist. Let me see it.”

He hid his hand behind him instinctively. “Please don’t take my food,” he begged. “I—I didn’t steal anything. I just—my brother hasn’t eaten since yesterday—”

Brother?

Isabella’s pulse hammered.

Her legs felt numb as she crouched—ruining her designer suit further—but she didn’t care. The cameras didn’t matter. The whispers didn’t matter. Only that crescent-moon birthmark mattered.

“Sweetheart,” she said softly, gently, words she hadn’t spoken in half a decade, “what’s your name?”

He swallowed nervously. “L-Luke.”

Luke.

Not Liam.

She shut her eyes. A knife twisted in her chest. Maybe she was wrong—maybe grief had finally broken her mind.

But something still clawed at her. Something instinctive. Something maternal.

“Luke,” she whispered, “where are your parents?”

His answer made her blood run cold.

“I don’t have any. Not real ones. Just… Valerie.”

“Valerie?” Isabella repeated.

“She says we can’t use our real names outside,” Luke said. “She says it’s dangerous. She says people want to take us away because we’re special.”

Us.
Plural.

Luke looked over his shoulder fearfully, scanning the street as if expecting someone to drag him away at any moment.

“Is Valerie here?” Isabella asked, her throat tight.

He nodded.

And pointed.

Across the street, under the awning of a dilapidated building, stood a woman in a long black coat. She had her hood up, but Isabella could see the sharpness of her eyes—watching, calculating. The moment the woman noticed Isabella looking, she turned abruptly and grabbed the arm of another child.

A little boy.

The same age.

Same height.

Same dark blond hair.

Same birthmark.

Isabella’s world stopped.

Both boys.

Two identical crescents.

Two identical faces.

Twins.

Her twins.

The ones she didn’t even know she had lost.

Her knees nearly buckled, but pure adrenaline kept her upright.

She shot to her feet.

“LUKE—how long have you lived with her?” Isabella asked, panic threading her voice.

Before the boy could answer, the woman across the street yanked the second boy backward, disappearing into the crowd.

Luke’s eyes widened. “She’s taking Liam—RUN!”

Isabella didn’t think.

She didn’t breathe.

She ran—through the rain, through the screaming crowd, through the blur of horns and headlights—her ruined white suit trailing behind her like a ghost, her heels skidding on the pavement.

Because the truth had finally surfaced.

Her son had never been taken by a stranger.

He had been stolen by someone who wanted both of her babies.

And now that Isabella had found one…

She would burn Manhattan to ashes before she lost the other again.