“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 one of his weird orders. He was always strange like that—full of himself and demanding. But when I arrived at his house and his daughter said something about what—or who—was downstairs, I couldn’t stop myself. I had to go look.
If someone had told me six months ago that my job as an architect’s assistant would mostly be about running errands and delivering coffee, I would have laughed hard. I was the top of my class, remember? I studied hard, dreamed big. But working for Mr. Miles was nothing like I imagined.
He was a genius at architecture, no doubt, but his personality? A total different story.
Take last Tuesday for example. The day barely started and he threw his keys on my desk with a growl: “Kara, take the Porsche to the mechanic again. And don’t let them cheat you this time.”
I hadn’t even sat down yet.
By lunch, I’d handled three phone calls from his ex-wife, delivered a special pair of cufflinks to a dry cleaner he said was “the only one who doesn’t ruin silk,” and I had to pretend I was his “junior partner” to present his designs at a meeting. All while trying to keep my sanity.
Then, in the middle of presenting his latest luxury condo plans to a client who was already tapping their foot impatiently, my phone buzzed. Normally, I ignore his calls during meetings, but this time the screen lit up with “Boss.” I knew better than to ignore it.
“Kara,” he said, his voice tight and serious. “I need you to drop everything and go to Chloe’s school. She says she has 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 cut me off sharply. “Straight home. Don’t go to the basement. It’s under repair. Got it?”
His voice made me stop. No use arguing.
“Fine,” I sighed. “On my way.”
At the school, I found Chloe curled up in the nurse’s office. She looked pale and miserable.
“Hey there, kiddo,” I said softly, sitting 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 make her smile.
“So, what’s your favorite ice cream flavor? I’m guessing chocolate chip cookie dough.”
“Chocolate’s gross,” she mumbled without looking at me.
“Okay, strike one for Kara,” I laughed lightly. Then she said something that made my heart stop.
“I need Rodger,” she whispered, tears gathering in her eyes.
“Rodger?” I asked, confused. “Who’s Rodger, honey?”
“My little brother,” she said, her voice breaking. “But this morning, Dad left him in the basement.”
My grip tightened on the steering wheel. Little brother? Basement?
When we arrived, my mind was racing. I set Chloe on the couch, wrapped her in a blanket, and gave her some water.
“Chloe, what do you mean Rodger’s in the basement? Is he okay?” I asked gently.
She nodded slowly and whispered, “Dad said not to let him out.”
Every warning bell in my head screamed: Don’t go. But I couldn’t just ignore it. I had to see.
I marched to the basement door, feeling like I was walking into a horror movie.
But when I stepped inside, it wasn’t scary at all. The air smelled like lavender, soft fairy lights glowed around the room, and the whole place looked magical.
The walls were painted in soft pastel colors, with fun decorations hanging from the ceiling. There was a tiny ruffled tent in one corner, surrounded by plush toys and piles of colorful books. Dolls lined the shelves perfectly, like they were waiting for someone to play.
Before I could take it all in, Chloe came quietly down the stairs behind me.
“Chloe,” I said softly, my voice shaking a little, “where’s your brother? Where is Rodger?”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she walked over to a shelf and picked up a framed photo.
She held it out to me carefully.
In the picture was Rodger—a boy about seven or eight years old, with bright eyes and a mischievous smile that looked just like Chloe’s.
“That’s Rodger,” she said softly.
I knelt down next to her, heart pounding.
“Where is he now, sweetheart?”
She looked up at me, then pointed toward the ceiling.
“He’s up there,” she whispered.
It took a moment for me to understand.
“You mean… he’s in heaven?” I asked gently.
Chloe nodded, her small face darkening.
“He got really sick with cancer last year. Daddy said he had to go where he wouldn’t hurt anymore.”
Tears stung my eyes as I looked back at the photo. My chest tightened with a mix of sadness and understanding. I’d thought Mr. Miles was hiding something dark, but instead, he was protecting something so fragile—his daughter’s memory of her brother.
Chloe pulled me over to a small table in the corner where a simple frame held a crayon drawing. It showed a boy and girl holding hands under a big rainbow.
“Daddy made this room for me,” she said. “So I’d always have a place to think about Rodger.”
Her face lit up as she spread her arms wide like she was showing me a palace.
“My daddy made it for me,” she said proudly. “He built my princess room. Everything in here, he made just for me. Well, we made it together, really.”
I knelt and gently touched the tiny tea set on a small table. My chest ached as I tried to wrap my head around the contrast—this sweet, loving space and the cold, harsh man I knew at work.
“You helped him?” I asked quietly.
She nodded, her curls bouncing as she smiled.
“I picked the colors. And the sparkly lights.”
Her face fell a little.
“It’s our happy place, so I don’t feel so sad about Rodger.”
Before I could stop myself, tears ran down my cheeks.
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 chess pieces—had poured his grief into creating something beautiful for her.
Suddenly, the front door opened. Heavy footsteps echoed through the house, and I heard a familiar voice call, “Chloe?”
She ran upstairs, and a moment later Mr. Miles appeared in the doorway. His eyes narrowed sharply when he saw me.
“Kara,” he said, his voice cold, “what are you doing down here? I told you not to come in here.”
I stood, wiping tears from my face.
“I… Chloe mentioned Rodger, and I didn’t know… she said he was in the basement, and I—”
He sighed deeply and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“This is why I didn’t want anyone to see. It’s… hard for me.”
His voice cracked just a little, and for the first time, I saw the heavy grief he carried—the pain he hid behind his tough, demanding mask.
Standing in Chloe’s princess room, surrounded by love and memories, I suddenly felt brave.
“Mr. Miles,” I said carefully, “can I be honest with you?”
His sharp eyes turned to me—not angry, just tired.
“Go ahead,” he said.
“I’ve been thinking about quitting,” I admitted, my voice shaking. “I’m not doing real work here. Fetching coffee, running errands… It’s not why I took this job. It feels meaningless.”
He didn’t snap or laugh. Instead, he surprised me—he sat down on a small wooden chair near the tent, elbows on knees, looking… human.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’ve been hard on you, haven’t I?”
I had no words.
“You know,” he went on, rubbing the back of his neck, “this is how I was trained when I started. My mentor believed in breaking you down to build you back up. I thought that was the only way 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.”
We sat in silence for a moment before he stood, pulling a folder from his briefcase.
“Let’s start over,” he said with a firmer but sincere voice. “Here’s a real assignment: review these blueprints for tomorrow. I want your input on the design. Are you ready to actually work?”
My mouth fell open. Was this a test? A trap? But then I caught a tiny smile at the corner of his mouth, and I knew he was serious.
I nodded, a grin breaking out.
“Finally,” I said, feeling a rush of relief and excitement.
He chuckled shortly, then 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 said, smiling.
“Tomorrow,” he added, heading up the stairs, “don’t be late.”
