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

The elevator ride to the penthouse felt like an ascent to the gallows. Elena smoothed her uniform, wiped her face, and stepped out onto the plush carpet of Marcus’s outer office. She walked past the secretary, pushing open the heavy oak doors.

Marcus was putting golf balls into a cup. He didn't look up. "You're trespassing, Rossi."

"I need an advance," she said. Her voice was devoid of emotion. "On my wages. Five years' worth. I’ll sign whatever contract you want."

Marcus laughed, a dry, barking sound. He missed his putt. "Janitors don't get advances. And certainly not five years' worth."

"Please," she said, the word tasting like ash. "It's for my father. He'll die."

"People die, Elena. It's efficient." He leaned against his desk, crossing his arms. "But... I do have some petty cash. Ten thousand, actually."

Hope, painful and sharp, pierced her chest. She stepped forward. "I'll pay it back. With interest."

"I don't want your money," Marcus smirked. He pointed to his Italian leather loafers. They were scuffed slightly. "I want submission. Clean my shoes. With your shirt."

Elena froze. An employment lawyer would have a field day, but she didn't have time for court. She had hours.

"My shirt?" she whispered.

"Right now. On your knees. Show me you know your place."

The clock on the wall ticked. Each second was a heartbeat of her father’s failing heart. Workplace harassment, dignity, pride—none of it mattered against the flatline tone of a heart monitor.

Slowly, agonizingly, Elena began to lower herself. Her knees hit the carpet. She reached for the hem of her grey jumpsuit, her hands shaking violently. Marcus watched, his eyes gleaming with sadistic triumph. He pulled out his phone again.

She was inches from his shoes. She could see her own reflection in the leather. Broken. Defeated.

Or was she?