Chapter 2 - The Girl in the Velvet Chair
Alexander’s hand hovered over the heavy mahogany handle of his office door. The singing stopped abruptly, replaced by the soft rustle of pages turning.
He pushed the door open.
There, sitting cross-legged in his million-dollar Italian leather executive chair, was a little girl no older than eight. She wore a faded yellow dress with a patched hem, and her curly brown hair was tied back with a piece of blue ribbon. In her lap lay an open, priceless first-edition copy of a rare philosophy book—a book Alexander kept locked in a glass display case.
She looked up, her wide, expressive brown eyes locking onto his. Instead of shrinking away in terror as any adult employee would have, she tilted her head curiously.
"You look tired," she said, her voice small and clear. "My mom says people who look like that forget to eat cookies."
Alexander froze. For ten years, no one had dared speak to him with such unguarded innocence. He opened his mouth to demand an explanation, to rage about unauthorized trespassers and liability, but no words came out.
Before he could speak, hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway. Maria burst into the room, her face drained of all color. She threw herself to her knees between Alexander and the little girl.
"Mr. Reed! Please, I am so sorry!" Maria sobbed, her hands trembling as she grabbed the hem of the child’s dress to pull her down. "She had nowhere to go! My babysitter canceled at the last minute, and I—I had no choice! Please don't fire me! I need this job to pay for her medicine!"
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Alexander looked down at his loyal, quiet housekeeper, trembling on the floor, and then back at the little girl, who was now holding onto Maria protectively.
"Get up, Maria," Alexander said, his voice dangerously low. "Explain to me right now... who is this?"
