I swear, if I have to scrub another toilet without so much as a thank you, I might lose it. Every day feels the same. Push the heavy cart down the long, polished hallways, mop floors, wipe mirrors, and make beds that I’ll never sleep in.
The hotel is gorgeous, sure—marble floors, chandeliers that look like they belong in a palace. But me? I’m just here to clean.
I’m 24 years old, and I feel like I’ve been working forever. No fancy degree or family to fall back on. My parents didn’t care much when I packed up and left home at 18. I’ve been on my own ever since. Two jobs—cleaning hotel rooms by day, waitressing by night. It’s not a life anyone dreams of, but it’s my reality.
I push my cleaning cart to Room 805, bracing myself. I know what’s waiting for me behind that door—a mess.
Sliding the keycard, I open the door, and there he is—just like every other morning. He’s stretched out on the bed, grinning at me, a cocktail in his hand, even though it’s barely noon.
“Well, well, look who it is. My favorite maid,” he says, his voice dripping with fake charm.