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 endless polished hallways, mop floors, wipe mirrors, make beds I’ll never sleep in. Smile when guests walk past, even when they don’t see me.
The hotel is gorgeous—marble floors, chandeliers glittering like frozen fireworks, fresh orchids in the lobby. People come here to feel important. But me? I’m just the invisible maid with sore feet and a paycheck that barely covers rent.
I’m only 24, but sometimes I feel twice that. My parents didn’t care much when I left at 18. I’ve been on my own ever since—cleaning hotel rooms by day, waitressing by night. Not glamorous, but survival rarely is.
And then there’s him.
Room 805.
Every time I slide my keycard and push that door open, there he is: sprawled across the bed like he owns the world, drink in hand, smug grin plastered across his face.
“Well, well, look who it is. My favorite maid,” he drawls, voice thick with arrogance.
I keep my head down, focusing on the sink, the trash, anything but him. He thrives on attention. I’ve learned silence is my only shield.
“Why don’t you ever talk to me?” he presses, sipping his cocktail though it’s barely noon. “You’re here every day. Might as well be friendly.”
Friendly. That’s what he calls it. I call it suffocating.
“You know,” he lowers his voice, pretending he’s doing me a favor, “I could make life easier for you. You wouldn’t have to work so hard if you played nice.”
The next few weeks blurred into the same routine. Clean, endure his remarks, escape. But then one morning, while tidying his room, I opened the nightstand drawer and froze.
