Chapter 2 - The Toy on the Marble
"Bia, no!" Amanda gasped, lunging forward on her hands and knees to grab her daughter's ankle.
But the toddler was surprisingly fast. Drawn by the catch of light on polished silver, Bia crawled out of the dark service alcove and into the grand marble foyer of the twentieth floor. She reached out her small, round hand and patted the silver watch, letting out a soft, delighted sound—a tiny aaah that echoed off the high ceilings.
Amanda scrambled out into the light, panic surging higher than ever. She scooped up Bia with one arm and reached for the watch with the other.
The moment her fingers touched the metal, she felt its immense weight. It wasn't a modern luxury timepiece; it was an heirloom, worn smooth at the edges by decades of thumbing. Engraved on the back in delicate, fading cursive script were four letters: A.A. to E.A. - 1988.
Amanda stared at it. E.A.
Before she could process the initials, the heavy oak doors of the executive conference room clicked open.
"I need the original land surveys from the 1990 vault!" a harsh voice shouted from inside. It was Arthur. "Check the physical archives on this floor now!"
The sound of footsteps approaching the door was immediate.
Amanda didn't think. She shoved the silver watch into her apron pocket, tucked Bia firmly under her left arm, and sprinted down the service corridor toward the only unsecured room left on the floor: the wide supply closet near the utility elevators.
She slipped inside, pulling the door closed until only a quarter-inch crack remained. The scent of floor wax, industrial bleach, and fresh linens enveloped them in the dark.
Outside, the young executive assistant, Marcos, hurried past the supply closet, his hands flying over his tablet as he searched for the archive key. He walked right past their hiding spot, his breathing shallow and panicked.
Inside the dark closet, Amanda sat on a crate of industrial paper towels, holding Bia on her lap. Her hands were shaking so violently she could barely keep her grip on her daughter.
Bia, however, was staring at Amanda’s apron pocket.
The tiny girl reached her hand into the dark fabric, her fingers wrapping around the smooth silver watch Amanda had shoved inside. She pulled it out.
"Shh, baby, put that back," Amanda whispered frantically, trying to take it from her.
Bia held on tightly, her small thumb inadvertently catching on the delicate side latch of the antique piece.
Click.
The silver cover sprang open.
From inside the watch, a tiny, mechanical music box began to play.
It wasn't a loud sound, but in the suffocating silence of the night shift, the soft, crystalline notes of a lullaby—a classic, melancholic melody—drifted out into the dark closet.
Plink... plink... plink-plink-plink...
Amanda’s blood ran ice-cold. She slammed her hand over the face of the watch to muffle the sound, but the mechanical comb kept vibrating against her palm, playing its quiet tune.
"No, no, no, stop," Amanda whimpered, her thumb searching frantically in the dark for the catch to close the lid.
Outside in the hallway, Marcos froze mid-stride.
He turned around slowly, looking back down the long, empty corridor toward the utility closet.
"What is that?" Marcos muttered to himself.
The music kept playing through Amanda’s fingers—soft, high-pitched, and delicate.
Marcos took a step toward the supply closet. Then another.
Inside, Amanda backed as far into the corner as the metal shelving would allow. She pressed Bia’s face into her shoulder, her thumb finally finding the spring latch on the watch. She pressed down hard.
Snap.
The music cut off instantly mid-note.
The quiet returned, heavy and suffocating.
Outside, Marcos stopped three feet from the supply closet door. He reached out his hand, his fingers hovering over the brass handle.
"Marcos!" Arthur’s voice thundered from the end of the hall, making the young man jump out of his skin. "Where are those surveys?!"
"Coming, Mr. Albuquerque! Right here!" Marcos yelled back, yanking his hand away from the closet handle and sprinting back toward the archive room at the far end of the corridor.
Amanda closed her eyes, letting out a long, shuddering breath that rattled in her throat. She slumped against the metal shelving, her forehead resting against a box of folded towels.
On her lap, Bia looked at the closed silver watch in her small hands. Then she looked up at her mother.
For the first time that night, the little girl didn't look back at her teddy bear. She looked at the watch with a strange, quiet intensity—as if something in that simple, mechanical melody had clicked deep within her young mind.
Amanda reached down and gently took the watch from Bia’s fingers. She pulled it into the dim light coming through the door crack to inspect it.
When the lid had popped open, it hadn't just revealed the tiny music mechanism.
Tucked inside the front cover, protected behind a thin, scratched sheet of mica, was a miniature photograph.
Amanda squinted through her tears to look at it.
The photograph showed a young man in his mid-twenties, smiling broadly against a backdrop of green mountains. He had dark, wavy hair, warm brown eyes, and a small, distinct dimple on his left cheek. Beside him stood a younger Arthur Albuquerque, his arm wrapped tightly around the boy's shoulders, looking at him with a look of fierce, uncharacteristic pride.
Amanda gasped.
The young man in the photograph wasn't Arthur. He looked like Arthur’s son.
But it wasn't the resemblance between Arthur and the young man that made Amanda’s breath lock in her throat.
It was the dimple on the young man's left cheek.
Amanda slowly turned her head and looked down at Bia.
Bia was sitting peacefully in the dark, her small face illuminated by the faint hallway light coming through the door crack. She was looking up at her mother, her lips parted slightly in a soft, sleepy expression.
And there, on her left cheek, was the exact same, deep, distinct dimple.
Amanda’s mind spun into a terrifying, dizzying void.
Sixteen months ago, Amanda had been a night-shift cleaner at a high-end private medical clinic in downtown São Paulo before moving to Albuquerque Holdings. She remembered the night she found out she was pregnant—a brief, tragic encounter with a soft-spoken young architect named Eduardo who had worked late in the clinic's administrative wing. He had been kind to her. He had bought her coffee when she looked exhausted. They had shared three quiet weeks of late-night conversations before he suddenly vanished, leaving behind only a brief note saying he had to return to his family's estate because he was sick.
Two months later, Amanda had tried to find him, only to be told by his former firm that Eduardo had passed away in a private hospital after a sudden, aggressive illness.
She had never known his last name. He had only ever introduced himself as Eduardo.
Amanda looked back at the tiny photograph inside the watch.
Engraved beneath the photo in minuscule letters was a full name:
Eduardo Albuquerque.
Amanda’s knees buckled, and she slid off the paper crate onto the cold floor, clutching her daughter to her chest as the truth hit her like a physical blow.
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The cold, ruthless billionaire sitting in the conference room twenty feet away wasn't just her employer.
He was Bia’s grandfather.
