Amanda checked her phone for the tenth time that night. The screen showed the same cold message from her supervisor:
“I need you on the night shift. Double pay for extra hours.”
She gripped the phone as if it were the only thing keeping her afloat. That money was exactly what she needed to cover the overdue rent, to stop the eviction notice that had been taped to her door for three days, to make the refrigerator stop sounding empty every time she opened it.
But on the sofa, wrapped in a worn blanket, slept Bia.
Eighteen months old. Curly hair spread across an old pillow. Soft breathing, as if the world couldn’t touch her. Amanda felt her chest tighten. Her neighbor, Dona Marlene—the one who usually helped—had called earlier with a high fever. There was no one else. No daycare open at nine at night. No family to ask. No backup plan.
“God… what do I do?” she whispered, rubbing her tired face.
She thought about saying no. Making up an excuse. But the image of the eviction notice cut through her like a knife. She remembered Bia crying when the milk ran out before the end of the month. Remembered the shame of counting coins at the supermarket and putting items back on the shelf.
The decision formed on its own—heavy and trembling.
She opened her daughter’s pink backpack and packed diapers, wipes, a change of clothes, and the faded teddy bear Bia refused to sleep without. Her hands shook. She leaned over the baby, brushed a curl from her forehead, and kissed her cheek.
“Forgive me, my love. Just for today… I promise.”
At 8:30 p.m., Amanda stood at the service entrance of the imposing Albuquerque Holdings building on Paulista Avenue. A fine drizzle fell—the kind that seems harmless but soaks your soul. Bia was hidden in an adapted baby carrier, pressed against Amanda’s chest, covered by an oversized borrowed coat.
The security guard, Mr. Osvaldo, barely looked up.
“Good evening, Amanda. You’re on the twentieth floor. It’s empty. The meeting was canceled.”
“Thank you, Mr. Osvaldo,” she replied, relief lasting only a second.
Empty was a beautiful word. Fewer eyes. Less risk. Less chance someone would see what they shouldn’t.
But he was wrong.
The service elevator rose painfully slowly. Ten. Fifteen. Eighteen. Twenty. When the doors opened, Amanda almost ran to the locker room. She checked the hallways. Silence. She carefully took Bia out.
“All right, my love. We’re safe here.”
Bia opened her dark eyes, confused by the strange place, but didn’t cry. She was a quiet baby, as if she’d already learned that noise brings trouble and the world isn’t always gentle with those who need it most.
Amanda set up a makeshift corner with blankets, left water and crackers nearby, and placed the teddy bear in Bia’s arms.
“Mommy will work fast. You stay here, okay? If you need me… you cry and I’ll come running.”
Then, as she reached the main hallway, she heard male voices coming from the executive elevator.
Her blood froze. She checked the time: 9:40.
“The meeting has been rescheduled. Everyone in the room in five minutes. We have a two-million-dollar hole to fix tonight,” a deep, sharp voice said.
Amanda recognized it from internal announcements. Arthur Albuquerque. The president. The man people spoke of in whispers. The man who never smiled. Who fired people without blinking. Made of glass and ice.
I have to leave. Now. I have to grab Bia and disappear.
She ran back to the locker room—
and found the door locked from the outside.
Security had sealed it, unaware a baby was inside. Amanda yanked the handle in panic.
“No… no, no, no…”
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