On a crisp October evening, downtown Chicago glittered in the twilight. At Marlowe’s—the city’s riverside Michelin-starred gem—Richard Evans dined alone. A man of stature and silence, he was known in real estate circles for his ruthless deals and ironclad composure. His salt-and-pepper hair was perfectly groomed, his Rolex shimmered beneath the table lamp, and his ribeye—aged to perfection—awaited its first bite.
Whispers followed him into every room. Admiration braided tightly with caution. He had built empires, but few saw past the granite exterior.
Then a voice broke the evening’s still rhythm.
“Sir, may I eat with you?”
Evans looked up. A girl—barefoot, no more than eleven—stood at his table. Tangled hair framed her dirt-smudged face, and her eyes carried a kind of loneliness that needed no translation. The maître d’ moved to intervene, but Evans raised his hand.
