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Unfortunately, it’s after 6:00 on a Friday night and nearly everyone has left for the day.
The elevator dings as I reach the ground floor, and I stride out into the grand lobby.
The lobby of Silver Screen Studios is as striking as the name implies—sleek, modern, and designed to impress.
Polished marble floors stretch across the expansive space, their glossy surface reflecting the soft glow of recessed lighting overhead. Towering glass walls offer a view of the city skyline, the twinkling lights of Los Angeles serving as a backdrop.
To the left, a cluster of contemporary armchairs and low glass tables form a seating area, arranged around a centerpiece of fresh white orchids displayed in a tall, minimalist vase. The right side of the lobby houses a coffee bar, its sleek black counter manned by a single barista who’s tidying up for the evening.
A massive reception desk sits at the center, curved and made of frosted glass with accents of brushed steel. Behind it, a wall-mounted digital screen cycles through clips of the studio’s latest films during the day, each transition smooth and seamless.
But now, the screens are off, and the usual hustle and bustle of the lobby is gone.
Behind the reception desk, which is usually manned by three receptionists, stands one lone person packing an oversized bag and preparing to leave.
I change directions and head toward reception, where she’s slinging the bag over her shoulder.
Her blonde hair catches the dim evening light, falling over her shoulder in soft waves. She turns slightly, giving me a glimpse of her features—round cheeks, big blue eyes, and a slight furrow in her brow as if she’s already preoccupied with the weekend ahead.
I narrow my eyes and flip through my mental files.
Annie Fox.
Twenty-two years old. Started a few months ago. She’s polite, professional, and unobtrusive.
Well, I don’t know that personally, but if she was anything other than that, she would be on my radar, and she hasn’t been.
Until now.
Just as she turns to leave, I call out, “Annie Fox.”
She startles, her head snapping toward me. For a moment, she just blinks, like she can’t believe I’m talking to her.
“Mr. Wagner,” she says hesitantly, a bit of a question in her voice.
I don’t blame her. Most employees in this building would rather avoid a late-night conversation with their boss.
Her blonde hair falls in loose waves around her face, and she’s wearing a fitted white blouse that she nervously tucks into a gray pencil skirt that hugs her petite, curvy frame.
“Do you have a moment?” I ask, striding toward her.
Shehesitates, shifting her bag higher on her shoulder. “Uhm, sure. Is something wrong? I was just—”
“Yes,” I say bluntly. “My nanny quit.”
She looks at me in confusion. “I’m sorry, sir. Your nanny?”
“Yes. My nanny.”
Her lips part slightly, and her grip on the bag tightens.
“I need someone to watch my son tonight,” I explain. “Just for a few hours.”
She blinks, clearly caught off guard. “You want me to babysit?”
“Yes.”
Her lips part further as if to respond, but she closes them again, her brow furrowing. “I... I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mr. Wagner. I mean, I’ve never—”