The house was worth more than most people would earn in three lifetimes.
And yet, behind its glass walls and marble floors, a seven-year-old girl was crying on her knees.
No one heard her.
At least, that’s what the maid believed.
The Bennett residence stood on a quiet hillside outside Los Angeles, where privacy was currency and silence was bought with gates, cameras, and guards. From the outside, it looked like a dream—floor-to-ceiling windows, modern art, soft lights glowing like a magazine cover come to life.
Inside, it was quiet.
Too quiet.
