They Thought I Was A Janitor, Until I Refinanced The Skyscraper And Evicted Them

Elena didn't hesitate. She jammed her fingers into the gap of the elevator doors. "Help me pry it."

Sophia pushed. The metal groaned, sliding open six inches to reveal a dark concrete shaft and the bottom half of the doorway to the floor above.

"I can't fit," Sophia whispered, eyeing the gap.

"I can." Elena squeezed through. She grabbed the greasy elevator cables, hoisting herself up. The steel wire bit into her skin. She swung her leg onto the ledge of the floor above, scrambling for grip.

Snap. A loose jagged piece of metal on the door frame sliced across her palm.

Elena bit her lip to swallow a scream. Blood welled up, dark and fast. A workers comp injury wasn't exactly applicable here. She wrapped her hand in a rag from her pocket, pulling the duct tape tight with her teeth to stanch the flow.

She crawled through the dust of the maintenance level, heading toward the service hatch that opened behind the penthouse wet bar. It was corporate espionage minus the spy gadgets.

She reached the grate and peered through the slats.

The penthouse was decadent. Crystal chandeliers, thumping bass, champagne flowing.

And there was Marcus. He was standing on a velvet chair, raising a glass to a room full of sycophants. Directly behind him, the large abstract painting was swung open.

The wall safe was exposed. He was showing off his conquest.