Camila forced herself to keep walking.

If anyone noticed her stopping, they would notice the little girl as well.

Without looking down again, she carried the tray to a nearby table and carefully served the meals with the same calm smile she had practiced for years.

Only after the guests thanked her did she return.

She knelt beside the table as if wiping a small spill from the floor.

"You're safe," she whispered. "What's your name?"

The little girl's lips trembled.

"Sofía."

"Who are you hiding from?"

Instead of answering, Sofía glanced toward a private dining room at the back of the restaurant.

The door was slightly open.

Inside sat four wealthy men wearing tailored suits.

One of them laughed loudly while swirling expensive wine in his glass.

The moment Sofía saw him, her entire body stiffened.

"Him," she whispered.

Camila followed her gaze.

The man looked respectable.

Silver hair.

Designer watch.

Confident smile.

The kind of customer the restaurant manager personally greeted every Friday.

Camila frowned.

"Is he your father?"

Sofía shook her head so violently tears rolled down her cheeks.

"He says he bought me."

The words stole the air from Camila's lungs.

Before she could respond, the restaurant manager hurried toward her.

"Camila," he said sharply. "Table twelve is asking for you."

His eyes briefly dropped toward the tablecloth.

For a split second...

...Camila noticed fear.

Not confusion.

Fear.

Then he quietly added,

"And don't look under the tables."

Her heart began pounding.

Someone already knew the child was here.