Getting into the company and rushing slowly my legs fast but it a slow way.
I did few works, cleaning, dusting, wiping of some important part.
I went to Sofia office, she wasn't even there so I just went back.
Someone shoulder brushed mine, making the cloth in my hand drop.
A sharp shoulder check from a passing suit. My cleaning rag fluttered from my hand. "Ewwww, don't touch me!" a voice shrilled.
I flinched, the public disgust a fresh slap.
I am not trash, It's just the rag!
I bent down, the coarse, damp fibers of the cleaning rag already in my hand a familiar brand of shame.
The trash—a crumpled memo with a lipstick stain like a bloody smear—had been tossed just beside the gleaming reception desk, right where clients would see.
"Miss, pick that up. Are you blind?" The voice was a sharp, polished dagger. It was Lena, from Marketing. She'd been at the center of the stylishly cruel huddle by the water cooler yesterday, their laughter about my "vintage" dress floating over to me as I emptied bins.
My jaw clenched so tight a muscle flickered in my cheek.
I didn't want to. I wanted to take that paper and slowly, deliberately, drop it into her perfectly styled hair.
But I had to. That was my job. Cleaner, of course. The word wasn't just a title; it was the grease-stained floor of my existence that everyone else walked on.
I plucked the paper from the floor, my fingers leaving damp prints on its surface, and disposed of it.
As I straightened up, Lena smoothed her blazer, a smirk playing on her lips. "Mrs. Amelia Thorne is visiting the firm today for the merger talks. A very important client. Mr. Charles wants to see you in his office. The preliminary meeting starts at nine sharp. So go now."
The world tilted.
Thorne.
The name hit me like a physical blow to the sternum, driving the air from my lungs. My blood seemed to freeze mid-flow, then rush to my ears in a deafening roar.
Lucian Thorne.
His sister? A wife? It couldn't be a coincidence. The city was vast, but that name… it was a tombstone dropped into the quiet pond of my dread.
No. Perhaps yesterday was just a nightmare. A stress-induced hallucination.
But my room was a warzone. The contract was under the floorboards. The ghost of his scent—cedar and cold power—still felt tangled in my hair. It was real. He was real. And now, his world was colliding with mine.
"Are you just going to stand there gawping? Mr. Charles is waiting!" Lena's voice cut through the static in my head, louder now, irritated by my lack of obsequious hurry.
I moved, but my legs were numb, carrying me down the hallway toward the managing partner's office like a condemned woman toward the gallows.
Each step echoed the question screaming in my mind: What does this mean?
Was this his way of checking on his investment? Sending a relative to see the collateral in its natural habitat? Or was it a monstrous coincidence, a final twist of the knife to show me his influence was everywhere, even here, in the last place I called my own?
The plush carpet muffled my footsteps, but nothing could muffle the frantic hammering of my heart.
I reached for the polished brass handle of Mr. Charles's door, my hand—still smelling of disinfectant and trash—shaking violently.
I was about to walk in, a cleaner summoned before the kingmaker of the firm. And waiting in the wings, a woman with the last name Thorne. The cage, it seemed, had many doors, and I was about to be paraded in front of one.
Knock… knock.
My knuckles struck the wood, the sound swallowed by the door's thickness.
"Come in."
A deep voice, muffled but clear. A command.
I turned the handle. The door swung inward on silent, well-oiled hinges, revealing the expansive office. Mr. Charles didn't look up from his monitor, the blue light etching harsh lines on his face.
"Close the door, Camilla."
I did. The soft, definitive click echoed in the plush silence, sealing me in.
He let the silence stretch, a practiced tactic, before finally swiveling his leather chair to face me. His expression was a polished mask of neutral authority.
"Mrs. Amelia Thorne," he began, steepling his fingers. "Of Thorne Consolidated. The merger discussions. You will be personally responsible for ensuring the executive conference room is immaculate before, during, and after her visit. You will be on call. You will be invisible. You will not speak unless directly asked a question pertaining to your duties. Do you understand?"
He wasn't asking. He was programming a machine.
"Yes, sir." A voice, flat and dead, issued from my throat. It was mine.
"Good. She arrives in one hour. The room is to be ready in thirty minutes. Dismissed."
I turned, my hand already reaching for the cold brass handle, a ticket out.
"And, Camilla?" His voice dropped, gaining a new, sharper edge. "Do not embarrass this firm."
I paused, my back to him, waiting for the blow I knew was coming.
"What is this that you're wearing?" The question was icy. "Where is your uniform?"
My mind blanked. A white static filled my head. Sir… sir… The words stuck in my dry throat.
How could I explain?
The walk, the rain, the kidnapping, the contract, the shattered room, the sleepless night, the bus, the old woman's claws… It was a tapestry of insanity. He would see a lie, or worse, a pathetic excuse.
"I…" I began, the syllable crumbling into nothing. "It was… damaged, sir. Last night."
It was the weakest, most transparent truth. He wouldn't believe me. He'd see the coffee-colored dress—simple, but not the uniform—as an act of rebellion, not desperation.
The silence behind me was heavier than any reprimand. It was the sound of his judgment forming, another black mark in a ledger I never agreed to keep.
"See that it doesn't happen again," he said finally, the dismissal final. "Thirty minutes."
I pulled the door open and slipped into the hallway, the weight of his gaze lingering on my back like a brand.
The hallway outside felt vast, cold, and mocking. The clock was ticking—not just for the conference room, but on the hour until a Thorne walked through the door. And I, in my wrong clothes, with my broken life, had to make a stage spotless for my owner's family to perform upon.
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To be continued...