The millionaire took pity on the beautiful homeless girl and hired her as a caregiver for his disabled father…

«Possibly in a month or two if the recovery pace holds.» He turned to Veronica. «You’re the new caregiver, I assume.»

Veronica Benson, nurse, she introduced herself, shaking his hand. «Very good,» the doctor nodded. Ethan Sinclair mentioned he’d found a qualified specialist.

«Here’s the list of medications and procedures.» He handed her a sheet of paper. «Pay special attention to limb massage and breathing exercises.

And monitor blood pressure; it fluctuates in our patient.» After the doctor’s departure, Constantine noticeably relaxed. «Nag,» he commented.

«But seems to know his stuff.» He’s right about the massage and exercises, Veronica noted. «If you allow, I’d like to add a few exercises for fine motor skills to your routine.

It’ll help restore coordination faster.» To her surprise, the old man didn’t object. «Do what you think necessary, as long as it helps.

I want to get back to work before Ethan fully takes the reins.» The day flew by in caring for the patient. Veronica was in her element; finally, she could do what she loved—helping people.

By evening, Constantine looked content and even thanked her for the massage, which, he said, for the first time in a long while didn’t feel like torture. After dinner, when the elder Sinclair retired for his evening rest, Veronica decided to explore the house. Ethan warned he’d be late at the office, and Elizabeth Sinclair had gone to the theater with friends, so she was left to herself.

The mansion impressed with its size and luxury. Besides living areas, there was a library, a music room with a piano, even a small home theater. Veronica wandered the corridors, examining the paintings on the walls—mostly landscapes and portraits, apparently of the Sinclair family ancestors.

In the west wing, she found a door leading to a spacious study, different from Ethan’s work study. Judging by the decor, this was Constantine’s room, his personal space for work and relaxation. Veronica didn’t intend to intrude, but the door was ajar, and her attention was caught by a large photograph in a silver frame on the desk.

She stepped closer to look. From the photo looked a young woman, a beautiful blonde with bright blue eyes and a charming smile. Something in her face seemed familiar to Veronica, but she couldn’t remember where she might have seen this girl.

«That’s Katie, my granddaughter,» came Constantine’s voice from behind her. Veronica started in surprise and turned. «Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.»

The door was open, and I… It’s fine, the elderly man entered the study, leaning on his cane. «I forgot to lock it myself.» «Sit if you like.»

He gestured to an armchair by the fireplace and sank into the opposite one. Catherine was my joy and pride, he continued, gazing at the photo. Smart, beautiful, with character.

All like her mother. She was meant to be the heir to our business. His voice trembled.

But fate decided otherwise. «I’m very sorry,» Veronica said quietly. The old man paused, then asked.

«You don’t have children of your own?» Veronica shook her head. It didn’t work out. «It’s hard to outlive your own child,» Constantine said thoughtfully.

«Ethan holds up, but I can see how much it hurts him. He raised Katie alone after his wife’s death. They were very close.»

Veronica looked at the photo again. The girl’s face still seemed familiar, but memory stubbornly refused to provide the information. How did she die? she asked cautiously, hoping not to stir too painful memories.

Constantine sighed. Car accident. She was returning from Austria, where she’d vacationed with friends.

On a mountain road, her car plunged into a ravine and caught fire. He closed his eyes, as if warding off horrific images. The body was badly burned; identification was only by dental records and personal items.

Suddenly, something clicked in Veronica’s memory. Catherine Sinclair. A year ago, at the psychiatric clinic where Veronica worked after being fired from MedCare, there was a patient who looked remarkably like the girl in the photo.

Only much thinner, with a dull gaze and hair almost white from stress. Her name was… What was her name? The name escaped her, but the resemblance was striking.

What’s wrong? Constantine asked worriedly, noticing her changed expression. Are you unwell? No, no, all fine, Veronica hurried to assure him. Just…

It’s such a tragedy. Yes, the old man nodded. The worst thing that can happen to parents.

He rose with effort. I’ll go to my room, I think. The day was tiring.

Veronica helped him reach his bedroom, ensured he took his evening medication, and wished him good night. But she couldn’t sleep for a long time, tormented by the strange feeling that the solution was close; she just needed to recall the right name. Elizabeth? No, not that.

Eva? Not that either. Evelyn. That’s what the patient at the psychiatric clinic was called.

But was she really Catherine Sinclair, or just an amazing resemblance? And if so, what really happened? Who died in that car accident? Questions swarmed in Veronica’s head, denying her peace. She knew she had to act carefully. If she was wrong and it was just coincidence, her suspicions might seem absurd and even insulting to the family that had helped her so much.

But if she was right, then what? With these thoughts, Veronica finally fell asleep, deciding that morning is wiser than evening. The next morning, Veronica woke with a firm resolve to find the truth. After breakfast and morning procedures with Constantine, she went to the library, where, according to Anna Paulson, there was a computer with internet access.

You can use it anytime you’re free, the housekeeper explained. The Wi-Fi password is under the keyboard. Leaving the elder Sinclair to rest after massage, Veronica settled at the computer and began searching for information about the accident in which Catherine supposedly died.

In news archives, she found several articles describing the tragedy. Daughter of prominent industrialist dies in crash. Tragedy on mountain road claims life of construction empire heiress.

Details of the incident mostly matched what Constantine had told. Catherine was returning from Austria in her car. On a mountain serpentine, presumably due to brake failure, the car veered off the cliff and burst into flames.

The body was severely burned, complicating identification. Veronica frowned. If that wasn’t really Catherine, who died in that car? And most importantly, where is the real Catherine now, if she’s alive? She recalled the patient from the psychiatric clinic.

Evelyn arrived about a month after Catherine Sinclair’s supposed death. Diagnosis—post-traumatic stress disorder and partial amnesia. She barely spoke, just stared out the window for hours.

And her documents were odd, hastily prepared. Veronica tried to recall more details. Who brought Evelyn to the clinic? Some man, claiming to be her uncle.

Tall, with dark hair and cold eyes. He paid for six months of treatment in advance and asked to keep her away from other patients and especially visitors. Suddenly, another important detail surfaced in memory.

Evelyn had a scar on her right wrist, a thin white line like from a cut. And Veronica noticed the same scar on Catherine’s photo when she examined it more closely last evening. This couldn’t be coincidence…