“Don’t go to the basement.” That was all my boss said before he hung up the phone. At first, I thought it was just another weird, half-bossy order from a man who seemed full of strange ideas. But when I stepped into his house and his daughter mentioned what — or who — was downstairs, I couldn’t stop myself. I had to look.
If someone had told me six months ago that my job as an architect’s assistant would mean making more coffee runs than drawing blueprints, I would have laughed so hard it would’ve hurt. I was top of my class! I had dreamed of big projects and creative work. But then I started working for Mr. Miles. Yes, he’s brilliant at architecture, a real genius, but working for him? It’s a wild ride.
Take last Tuesday, for example. The day barely started, and he had already tossed his keys on my desk. “Kara,” he barked, “take the Porsche to the mechanic again. And this time, don’t let them rip you off.” I hadn’t even sat down yet.
By lunchtime, I’d handled three phone calls from his ex-wife, delivered his fancy cufflinks to the dry cleaner — “the only one who doesn’t ruin silk,” he’d said — and sat in a meeting where I had to pretend to be his “junior partner” and present his designs to a very impatient client.
I was halfway through presenting the plans for his latest luxury condo when my phone buzzed. Usually, I ignore his calls during meetings, but when I saw “Boss” on the screen, I knew this was serious.
“Kara,” he said, his voice tight and strange, “I need you to drop everything and go to Chloe’s school. She’s got a stomach ache and needs to come home. Take her to my place and stay with her until I get back.”
“Wait, Mr. Miles, I’m in the middle of —”
“Now, Kara,” he snapped. “Straight home. And whatever you do, don’t go to the basement. It’s, uh, under repair. Got it?”
I wanted to argue. I really did. But the tension in his voice stopped me cold. “Fine,” I sighed. “I’m on my way.”
At the school, I found Chloe curled up in the nurse’s office, looking pale and miserable. “Hey, kiddo,” I said softly, kneeling beside her. “Let’s get you home.”
She barely nodded, clutching her stomach as I helped her into the car. On the drive, she whimpered quietly, and I tried to distract her.
“So,” I smiled, “favorite ice cream flavor? I’m guessing chocolate chip cookie dough?”
She scrunched up her nose. “Chocolate’s gross.”
“Okay, strike one for Kara,” I laughed gently. Then she whispered something that made my heart freeze.
“I need Rodger,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes.
“Rodger?” I asked, confused. “Who’s Rodger, sweetheart?”
“My little brother,” she said, her voice cracking. “But this morning, Dad left him in the basement.”
My hands gripped the steering wheel tight as her words sank in. Little brother? Basement?
When we got to the house, my mind was spinning. I helped Chloe inside and set her up on the couch with a blanket and water. Then I crouched down in front of her.
“Chloe, what do you mean Rodger’s in the basement? Is he okay?”
She nodded, but looked serious. “Dad said not to let him out.”
Alarm bells went off in my head, but I pushed past the warnings. Slowly, I walked to the basement door.
Stepping inside, I braced for something scary, something out of a horror story. But instead, the air was filled with the soft scent of lavender. Fairy lights glowed gently, and the room looked… magical.
The walls were painted in soft pastel colors. Whimsical decorations hung from the ceiling. In one corner was a tiny ruffled tent surrounded by plush toys and piles of colorful books. Dolls lined the shelves, perfectly arranged like they were waiting for someone to come play.
Before I could take it all in, Chloe padded down the stairs behind me.
“Chloe,” I whispered, my voice shaking, “where is your brother? Where’s Rodger?”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she walked to a shelf and picked up a framed photo, holding it out to me with both hands.
In the picture was a boy about seven or eight years old, with bright eyes and a cheeky smile — Rodger.
“That’s Rodger,” Chloe said softly.
I knelt down beside her, heart pounding. “Where is he now, sweetheart?”
She looked up at me, eyes glistening. Then she pointed toward the ceiling.
“He’s up there,” she whispered.
It took me a moment. Then I understood.
“Oh,” I said softly. “You mean… he’s in heaven?”
Chloe nodded, her little face filling with sadness. “He got really sick with cancer last year. Daddy said he had to go where he wouldn’t hurt anymore.”
Tears stung my eyes. My chest tightened as I stared at the photo. All this time, I’d thought my boss was hiding something dark. But no — he was protecting something fragile. His daughter’s memory of her brother.
Chloe took my hand and led me to a small table in the corner. On it was a crayon drawing in a simple frame. It showed a boy and a girl holding hands under a rainbow.
“Daddy made this room for me,” she said, voice brightening. “So I’d always have a place to think about Rodger.”
Her face lit up with pride. “My daddy made it for me. He built my princess room. Everything in here, he made it just for me. Well, we made it together.”
I knelt down and gently touched the edge of a tiny tea set arranged on a miniature table. My chest ached. The contrast between this warm, loving space and the cold, demanding man I knew at work was almost too much.
“You helped him?” I asked softly.
She nodded, curls bouncing. “I picked the colors. And the sparkly lights.” Her face turned a little sad. “It’s our happy place. So I don’t feel so sad about Rodger.”
Tears slipped down my cheeks before I could stop them. Here was this little girl holding onto her brother’s memory with so much love. And her father — the man who barked orders and treated everyone like pieces on a chessboard — had poured his grief into making something beautiful just for her.
Suddenly, the sound of the front door opening broke my thoughts. Heavy footsteps echoed through the house. A familiar voice called, “Chloe?”
She ran upstairs, and moments later, Mr. Miles appeared in the doorway. His eyes immediately narrowed when he saw me.
“Kara,” he said sharply, “what are you doing down here? I told you not to come in here.”
I stood up, wiping tears from my cheeks, words stumbling out. “I… Chloe mentioned Rodger, and I didn’t know… she said he was in the basement, and I—”
He sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is why I didn’t want anyone to see. It’s… hard for me.”
His voice cracked, and for the first time, I saw the heavy weight he carried — the grief behind his hard, demanding exterior.
Standing there in Chloe’s “princess room,” surrounded by pieces of love and sorrow, I felt something shift inside me. I took a deep breath.
“Mr. Miles,” I said quietly, “can I be honest with you?”
He looked at me with sharp eyes, but not angry — just tired. “Go ahead.”
“I’ve been thinking about quitting,” I admitted, voice trembling. “I’m not doing real work. Fetching coffee, running errands — it’s not why I took this job. It feels meaningless.”
He didn’t yell or snap. Instead, he sank onto a small wooden chair by the tent, resting his elbows on his knees. The mighty Mr. Miles looked… human.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’ve been hard on you, haven’t I?”
I stayed silent, unsure what to say.
“You know,” he went on, rubbing the back of his neck, “this is how I was trained. My mentor believed in breaking you down to build you back up. I thought that’s what it took to push someone to succeed.” He glanced around the room, eyes resting on the family photo. “But now… I see it’s nonsense. Really, it is.”
The air was heavy between us. Then he straightened and pulled a folder from his briefcase.
“Let’s start over,” he said, voice firmer but sincere. “Here’s a real assignment: review these blueprints for tomorrow. I want your input on the design. Are you ready to actually work?”
I stared, mouth open. Was this a test? A trap? Then I saw the smallest smile at the corner of his mouth.
I nodded, unable to hide my grin. “Finally,” I said, relief and excitement bubbling up inside me.
He chuckled shortly and stood. “Good. And Kara?”
“Yes?”
He glanced at Chloe’s drawing on the table. “Thanks for taking care of her. And for… sticking around.”
“Of course,” I smiled warmly.
“Tomorrow,” he added as he walked upstairs, “don’t be late.”
