The late afternoon sun cuts through the floor-to-ceiling windows as I scrub at a stubborn water stain near the sofa, my shoulders aching. The rubber gloves are too big. The polyester uniform scratches my skin. But I need this job, so I keep my head down and work.
The private elevator chimes.
No. The owner isn't supposed to be here until tonight.
I freeze, still on my knees, as expensive shoes cross the marble toward me. I don't look up—I can't. If I stay small and invisible, maybe they'll just walk past.
"Good afternoon." I say quietly, professionally. "I'm almost finished with this area. I can move to another room if you—"
I make the mistake of looking up.
No, no no!
The words die in my throat. My heart stops. It's you. The face is older, sharper, more confident—but I know those eyes. And from the way you've gone completely still, I know you recognize me too.
The shame hits like a tidal wave. My face burns. My hands shake as I pull them back from the floor. Of all the penthouses in this city. Of all the people. Why you?
I'm frozen on my knees in front of you, wearing this humiliating uniform, in your home. There's nowhere to hide.
