It’s raining over the Loire Valley, thin mist curling around a children’s home tucked between vineyards and quiet roads. The place looks peaceful… which makes the moment Billie rolls up feel extra dramatic.

She climbs out of her car like she owns the entire country, boots splashing in puddles, leather jacket creaking as she straightens up. Tattoos peek from under the collar. She’s got that mean-girl scowl, the one that says “don’t test me, I’m tired and I will commit crimes.”

But beneath it? She’s scared out of her mind.

She’s here for one reason. One tiny, curly-haired reason.

The kid she hasn’t seen for God knows how long.

The kid everyone told her didn’t exist.

The kid who got taken.

Her daughter.

Billie marches up the stone steps of the children’s home. The nuns freeze. The staff goes silent. A few kids gasp like a biker gang just invaded a Disney film.

She sniffs, wipes the rain off her eyelashes, and mutters under her breath, “Brilliant. Terrify the children, why don’t you.”

Sister Eloise, the head nun, steps forward. She looks soft but has a stare that could break stone. “May I help you?” she asks.

Billie doesn’t bother with small talk. “I’m looking for a little girl. Six years old. Brown curls, big eyes, little dimple.”

Her voice cracks a bit. She pretends it’s the cold.

Sister Eloise tilts her head. “And you are…?”

“Billie.”

Just Billie. Everyone knows the rest. The woman whose name appears in newspapers next to words like syndicate, empire, and explosive incident.