Arlan Aditama stood outside the oak door, torn between suspicion and bewilderment. The hallway clock ticked relentlessly, but the cries that usually split the air had vanished entirely. Silence. And that silence unnerved Arlan far more than his son's screaming ever had.
The two minutes he'd promised were up. His large hand gripped the doorknob, caught between barging in and waiting a beat longer. His thoughts kept circling back to Amara — this fragile village girl who somehow had the nerve to banish him from his own baby's room.
"What is she doing?" he muttered under his breath. The anger that had flared earlier had given way to a burning need to know. Arlan wasn't accustomed to being out of control. In his company, he was king. In this house, he was the law. Yet this slip of a girl had just carved out her own territory within his walls.
Without a sound, Arlan slid his spare key into the lock. He turned it with painstaking slowness — not a single click betrayed him. He eased the door open just a few inches, creating a narrow gap to peer through.
Inside, the overhead lights were off. Only the dim glow of a nightlight in the corner remained. Arlan squinted. He could see Amara hunched over Kenzo's crib, smoothing the baby blanket with movements so gentle they barely disturbed the air.
Kenzo was asleep. Truly, deeply asleep. His breathing was even, his tiny hands splayed open beside his head — a picture of peace Arlan hadn't witnessed in weeks. No more scarlet face twisted in agony, no more desperate thrashing.
Amara was hurriedly refastening the top buttons of her uniform. Her fingers fumbled, and there was a panicked urgency to every movement. She pressed her palm flat against the front of her blouse several times, as if something had spilled there.
Arlan pushed the door wide and stepped inside. His shoes struck the marble floor, and Amara jolted as though she'd been shocked. She whirled around, placing herself between him and the crib, her face drained of color.
"How did you do that?" Arlan's voice cut through the darkness like a whispered blade.
"Sir... w-when did you come in?" Amara's words shook. She bowed low, hands wringing together in front of her stomach, trying to shield the patch of her blouse that looked noticeably damper than before.
Arlan didn't answer. He walked to the crib and gazed down at his son. Kenzo was utterly serene. But as Arlan leaned closer, he caught a scent saturating the air — rich, warm, unmistakably sweet. It was nothing like the sharp, tinny smell of canned formula. This was something organic, something alive. Something that tugged at a primal corner of his mind.
"How did he fall asleep so fast? What did you give him?" Arlan turned and pinned Amara with his hawk-like stare. He advanced, forcing her backward until her spine met the cold wall.
"I... I just rocked him, sir. Maybe Kenzo only needed skin-to-skin contact to feel safe," Amara managed, her voice fracturing. Her heart pounded so fiercely she was certain he could hear it.
Arlan's eyes narrowed, traveling to the collar of her blouse, which sat slightly askew. "Just rocking? Then why do you look so terrified? And why are you drenched in cold sweat?"
He raised one hand, his fingers hovering a breath away from her shoulder. He could feel the heat radiating off her skin. Something wasn't adding up — he was sure of it. This girl was concealing something enormous behind that innocent facade.
"I don't tolerate lies, Amara," he breathed directly into her ear, and every hair on the back of her neck stood on end. "If I discover you gave my son anything harmful to shut him up, I won't hesitate to have you thrown in jail."
All she could do was shake her head, tears brimming. "I would never hurt Kenzo, sir. I swear to God... I only wanted him to rest."
Arlan held still for a long moment, studying the tremor in her lips. Suspicion lingered, but the sweet scent drifting off her body had begun to cloud his reasoning. He withdrew his hand, fighting down a strange surge of desire that had no business surfacing in the middle of his anger.
"Go to your room. Lasmi will show you the way. Tomorrow morning, we'll talk again. And remember this — never lock that door again when you're with Kenzo."
Amara nodded frantically and all but fled the room. Meanwhile, Arlan remained standing over his sleeping son, breathing in the last traces of that sweet fragrance Amara had left behind. He knew this girl was no ordinary caretaker. And he was determined to uncover exactly what she was hiding beneath that uniform.
***
Amara half-ran down the long, silent corridor on the second floor. Her stocking feet made no sound on the plush carpet, but the drumbeat of her own pulse roared in her ears.
Every time the memory of Arlan's piercing gaze flashed through her mind — the way he'd cornered her against the wall — her knees threatened to buckle. She felt like a deer that had just slipped from a tiger's jaws, knowing full well the tiger hadn't given up; it was simply biding its time before it struck again.
"Lasmi..." Amara whispered when she spotted a figure at the end of the hallway near the kitchenette.
Lasmi, who had been tidying a row of bottles in the pantry, looked up with a worried expression. "Amara? What happened? You're white as a ghost."
Amara rushed over and seized Lasmi's arm, her grip shaking violently. "Where's my room? I need to rest. I... I'm afraid I'll make a wrong move."
Lasmi set down the bottle she was holding and led Amara toward the rear wing of the mansion, where the staff quarters were — still far more luxurious than anything Amara had known at home. "Did Mr. Aditama yell at you? Or did Kenzo refuse to settle?"
"Kenzo fell asleep. But then Mr. Aditama came in and... he's suspicious. He asked a lot of questions," Amara replied, trying to steady her breathing. She could still feel the phantom warmth of Kenzo's tiny mouth against her skin, and the damp patch on her uniform made her desperately uncomfortable.
"Shh, keep your voice down." Lasmi opened a door to a tidy room with a soft single bed. "This is yours. There's a small bathroom inside. You can wash up in there."
Lasmi closed the bedroom door and studied Amara carefully. "Mara, be honest with me. What did you do to make that baby go quiet like that? Usually, even with three people holding him, Kenzo screams until he has no voice left."
Amara turned her face away, unable to meet Lasmi's experienced eyes. "I just... gave him what he needed. Love."
Lasmi exhaled, accepting the answer as nothing more than a diplomatic response from a naive girl. "All right, get some rest. But remember, Mara — Mr. Aditama is extremely observant. He has cameras in nearly every corner of this house, except the bathrooms and your private room. So don't do anything... unusual."
Amara's stomach dropped. Cameras? That meant Arlan could see everything.
"C-cameras? In the nursery too?" she asked, her voice barely there.
"Yes, but he rarely checks them when he's busy at the office. Since his wife left, though, he monitors them from his phone more often. Anyway, don't overthink it. Kenzo is calm — that's already a huge win for you," Lasmi said, patting Amara's shoulder before stepping out.
The moment the door closed and the lock clicked, Amara slumped against it. She slid down to the floor, buried her face between her knees, and let the tears fall unchecked. She wept for the impossible lie she'd been forced into — all to keep her family fed.
Slowly, she unbuttoned her blouse and stared at the wet circles staining her uniform. The scent of her own milk filled her nostrils — the very aroma that was now both her lifeline and her landmine.
"Mom... I'm scared," she breathed.
On the opposite side of the mansion, in his darkened study, Arlan Aditama sat in his leather chair. He wasn't reviewing quarterly reports. His eyes were fixed on a large monitor displaying the nursery's security footage from minutes ago.
He rewound to the moment Amara had asked to be left alone with Kenzo. Frame by frame, he studied her every movement on the grainy black-and-white feed. The high back of the rocking chair blocked a clear view of what she'd done, but he could see the rhythmic sway of her back, and the way Kenzo — who had been writhing in distress — went suddenly, impossibly still.
Arlan touched his own lips, remembering the sweet scent that had engulfed him in the nursery. "Little girl... what exactly did you give my son?" he murmured, his voice rough and thick with a hunger he couldn't name.
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