My heart hammered. I glanced at the clock—4:55 p.m.—the minutes slipping like sand.
“I’m just… I’m trying to keep her safe,” I managed, feeling Ferny’s tiny breath against my cheek.
Patel’s eyes hardened. He reached for the handle of the forbidden stairwell, the dark, narrow stair that led to the owner’s office, a path no staff ever used.
“You’re heading down there?” he asked, voice a cold whisper.
I turned, my feet already moving, the rattle clattering against the floor.
Mr. Patel grabbed my arm.
His grip was iron, his fingers digging into my skin as he pulled me back.
“You’ll hear the owner,” he hissed, his breath dry against my ear, “and he will hear everything.”
Blanket Gone, Accusations Echo
At 5:10 p.m. I slipped the coat back off and felt the cold floor under my feet.
The pink blanket was nowhere to be seen.
My heart thudded; I brushed a stray curl from Ferny's cheek and whispered, “Where are you?”
The storage door stood half‑open, the hinges squeaking in the late‑day hush.
From the service corridor, Mr. Patel’s voice cut through the air like a blade.
“A woman who hides a baby behind the linen has no business calling herself a responsible mother!”
He paced forward, eyes narrowed, the fluorescent lights buzzing above us.
“You think you can sneak a child in here and get away with it?” he snarled.
My throat clenched; I could barely form a reply before he added, “I’ll make sure the owner hears exactly what you did, and I’ll let your baby's father know too.”
His words rang, each syllable a weight pressing on my shoulders.
“Mr. Patel, please—” I began, voice trembling.
He raised a hand, silencing me, and the clock on the wall ticked louder than ever.
Descent into the Dark
Adrenaline surged as I scanned the back wall, spotting the narrow stairwell cloaked in shadow.
The sign above read “Staff Only – No Entry.”
I remembered the whispered rule: no one ever uses those stairs.
Every instinct screamed to run, but the thought of being caught by Mr. Patel terrified me more.
I slipped forward, my coat rustling, and felt the cold metal of the railing under my palm.
“You think you can escape me?” Patel’s voice echoed from the corridor, his footsteps growing louder.
He was right behind me, his silhouette a looming threat.
Halfway down, I paused, breath shallow, listening to the distant hum of the office’s air‑conditioning.
The stairwell narrowed, the walls closing in, the air thick with dust.
At the bottom, a heavy wooden door stood, its surface scarred by years of use.
I slammed my palm against the knob, the wood giving a muted thud.
It wouldn’t turn.
I turned, heart hammering, and saw Patel’s face, hard as stone, inches from me.
“You’re not getting away,” he hissed.
Before I could answer, a faint red light flickered on the doorframe—a hidden camera, its lens glinting ominously.
The lights inside the office were off, the lock engaged, and the camera’s steady blink promised that every desperate step was being watched.
Mrs. Alvarez’s Office
I pushed the heavy door open and stepped into a cramped office that smelled of old paper and lemon cleaner.
Behind the desk sat the owner herself, Mrs. Alvarez, eyebrows raised as if she’d been waiting for me.
