THE POOR GIRL FOUND A BLEEDING MILLIONAIRE IN A GARBAGE DUMP… AND BY MORNING, HIS ENEMIES WERE HUNTING YOU BOTH

Then you realize.

No one has taken charge of him in a long time. Or perhaps no one has done so without fear or deference. Whatever world he comes from, it is not one where old women in worn aprons tell him where to sit and what to do without asking permission.

“What is your name?” your grandmother asks him.

He opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Shakes his head once. “I don’t know.”

She studies him.

Then she says, “Convenient.”

You glance at her, startled.

The man winces, whether from pain or the accusation, you cannot tell. “I’m not lying.”