A MILLIONAIRE WAS STUNNED WHEN A YOUNG WOMAN ARRIVED ON A BIKE WEARING THE PENDANT HE GAVE HIS DA...

A MILLIONAIRE WAS STUNNED WHEN A YOUNG WOMAN ARRIVED ON A BIKE WEARING THE PENDANT HE GAVE HIS DAUGHTER BEFORE SHE VANISHED... Arthur Blackwood stood at the window of his study, watching the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the once-meticulously maintained gardens. Twenty-five years. Twenty-five years to the day since his world had crumbled beneath his feet. He took a sip of his bourbon—the same ritual he'd performed every evening at precisely 5:47 PM, the exact time when little Natalie had vanished without a trace. "Will there be anything else, sir?" Henderson, the aging butler who'd been with the family for over four decades, stood in the doorway, his posture still impeccable despite his advancing years. "No, Henderson. That will be all for tonight." The butler nodded, hesitating just a moment too long. "Sir, if I may... perhaps tonight you might consider dining in the main hall rather than your study?" Arthur's grip tightened on the crystal tumbler. "Not tonight, Henderson." Not tonight. Not on this anniversary. The words he'd repeated year after year, as the mansion around him slowly transformed from a home of joy into a mausoleum of memories. Outside, the rolling hills of the vineyard stretched as far as the eye could see. Blackwood Estate wines had once been the pride of the region, their robust reds and delicate whites adorning the tables of the finest restaurants across the country. Now, the business was run by managers, the profits transferred to Arthur's accounts with minimal input from the man himself. He'd lost his taste for wine—for celebration of any kind—on that fateful May afternoon. As the light faded, Arthur moved through the west wing of the mansion, his footsteps echoing on the marble floors. The staff knew better than to light this hallway brightly; he preferred the shadows here, where the family portraits hung in chronological order. His ancestors, stern-faced men and elegant women, watched his nightly pilgrimage with painted eyes. At the end hung the last family portrait—Arthur, his late wife Catherine, and little Natalie, just five years old, her blonde curls caught in the sunlight, her smile revealing a missing front tooth. Catherine had died three years before Natalie's disappearance, a swift and merciless cancer that had left Arthur a single father. And then the unthinkable happened, leaving him entirely alone. Arthur paused, as he always did, before turning the handle to Natalie's bedroom. The door opened with a familiar creak—he'd forbidden the staff from oiling the hinges, wanting everything to remain exactly as it had been. The room was immaculate, preserved like a museum exhibit. A stuffed bear sat propped against the pillows, a children's book open on the nightstand, a pair of tiny slippers beside the bed, waiting for feet that had long since outgrown them. "Sleep well, my angel," he whispered into the emptiness, the words a hollow echo of the bedtime ritual they'd once shared. He closed the door quietly and continued down the hall to the terrace that overlooked the eastern gardens—Catherine's pride and joy, and the scene of the tragedy. In the years following Natalie's disappearance, he'd let the once-vibrant garden fall into disrepair. Now, overgrown rosebushes reached like desperate hands toward the sky, their thorns defending dreams long abandoned. "Mr. Blackwood?" Martha, the housekeeper who'd been with the family since before Natalie was born, stood at the terrace entrance. "Your dinner is ready, sir." Arthur nodded without turning. "Leave it in the study, please."