Chapter 2 - The Millionaire’s Secret
The conference room was a cathedral of glass and steel. Arthur Albuquerque stood at the head of a mahogany table, his face a mask of cold arrogance. He was leaning over a document, his knuckles white.
“I told you, the money is gone,” Arthur snapped, slamming a folder down. “And it’s not just the ledger. Someone is leaking internal communications. Someone in this building knows about the offshore accounts.”
He turned to pace, and his foot struck something soft.
He stopped. He looked down.
Bia sat at his feet, staring up at the giant of a man with wide, innocent eyes. She wasn't crying. She wasn't afraid. She simply reached out a tiny hand and patted the expensive leather of his Italian shoe.
Arthur’s face went pale. He didn't scream. He didn't call security. He stared at the child as if she were a ghost from a past he had worked very hard to bury.
“What is this?” his consultant hissed, stepping forward. “A child? How did she get in here?”
Arthur didn't answer. He knelt down slowly, his movements stiff. He looked at Bia’s face, then at the small, pink backpack she had dragged with her—the one with Amanda’s name, A. Silva, written in permanent marker on the strap.
“The maid’s,” Arthur whispered. He reached out, his hand shaking, and touched the toddler’s cheek.
Bia didn't flinch. Instead, she leaned into his touch.
In the shadows of the hallway, Amanda felt the world stop. She saw Arthur’s eyes well up with tears—a man who was famous for being a sociopath in the boardroom. He looked at the girl, then at the backpack, and his entire demeanor shifted. The arrogance vanished, replaced by a haunting, hollow sadness.
“Leave us,” Arthur commanded, his voice trembling.
“Arthur, we have to talk about the two million—”
“I said, leave!”
The consultant backed away, confused and wary. When the door clicked shut, Arthur Albuquerque sat on the floor, right there on the expensive carpet, and pulled the toddler into his lap.
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“You look just like her,” he whispered to the baby.
Amanda realized with a jolt of horror that he wasn't talking to Bia. He was talking to a memory.
