By the time I stumble through the front door, I'm half-dead.
Every bone in my body feels like it's been individually broken. My hair—still reeking of bleach—clings to my face, my clothes are damp with sweat and shame, and I'm ninety percent sure my spine isn't aligned the way it used to be.
Okay, maybe that's dramatic. But you get the idea.
Cora's curled up on the couch, laptop open, sipping some kind of smug herbal tea. She glances up and whistles.
"Well, someone's had a day."
I drop the mop—yes, I brought it home, don't ask—and collapse face-first onto the rug.
"If you say one word," I mumble into the carpet, "about 'humble beginnings' or 'character-building,' I swear to every god known to man, I will scream."
She lifts her hands in surrender. "Wasn't gonna. But... you smell like chemical warfare."
I groan and flip onto my back. The ceiling spins a little. My arms are dead. My legs are gelatin. My soul? Long gone.
"Remind me again why I didn't just become a barista or a dog walker or literally anything else?"
"Because your options were: clean floors or get torn apart by the press."
Right. That.
My infamy still clings to me like a bad cologne. Rich-girl scandal. Family fraud. Public disgrace. I'm a walking headline.
Cora shuts her laptop and scoots closer. "So? Did you survive your boss today? Julian can be a bit... much."
So that's his first name. Julian A. Renaud. Huh. Never knew it until now. Just knew him as The Tyrant Upstairs.
Has a nice ring to it, though.
I scoff. "Define 'survive.'"
"Still breathing?"
"Barely."
She brushes a bleach-stiff strand of hair off my forehead. "You're tougher than you think, Vale."
"I'm a mop-wielding tragedy."
"Maybe. But you didn't quit."
No. I didn't. Even when he told me to start over. Even when my arms shook and I wanted to cry into the tile.
"Do you think I'm insane?"
Cora grins. "Do you want the honest answer or the supportive best-friend answer?"
"Both."
"Honestly? Yes. But... I also think this might be the best thing that's ever happened to you."
I blink at her.
"You hated that life," she says. "The fake friends. The parties. All the influencer nonsense. At least now, you get to be miserable for real reasons."
She's right. Unfortunately.
"I wanted to paint," I whisper.
"I know."
"I thought that would be enough."
"It still can be."
I shake my head. "Not with bleach in my hair and a boss who thinks sarcasm counts as leadership."
She smirks. "Maybe bleach is the first step to artistic greatness. Bleach-blasted expressionism."
I snort, exhausted but a little less hollow. "You're insane."
"Takes one to know one." She tosses me a towel. "Shower. Eat. Survive again tomorrow."
It's not the dream. Not even close.
But it's something.
And for the first time in a long time, something might be enough.
I roll my eyes, grab the towel, and head upstairs.
"Easy for you to say," I mutter. She chuckles behind me.
After a quick shower, I change into sweatpants and a tank top, then face-plant into my bed. I pass out immediately.
⸻
Before I realize, it a week had passed,and it's another Monday of another week.
To my shock, today isn't a total disaster.
I think I've gotten the hang of this cleaning thing. I stare down at the hallway I just mopped and allow myself a small smile.
It's... not terrible. Passable, even.
I kind of wish I could see the look on Julian's face. Just to prove I'm not the helpless rich girl from before.
But... I haven't seen him at all today.
We haven't made eye contact once. No absurd cleaning assignments. No lurking supervision.
I should be thrilled. But for some reason... I'm not.
"Hey. You there—the cleaner."
I blink, snapped out of my thoughts. I'd been standing there watching the floor dry. Apparently, that's not part of the job.
"I didn't know Mr. Renaud paid you to watch the floor dry," said a sharp, unimpressed voice.
I look up.
Kara Dean.
Head of the design department. Rumored to be dating Julian—although nothing's ever been confirmed. Still, she acts like she owns the place. As if dating the boss gives her the right to ignore every rule of human decency.
I sigh. What does she want now?
You're probably wondering how I'm walking around unnoticed. Cora got me contacts and a face mask. It's not perfect, but it works. For now.
Kara looks me up and down, clearly judging the janitor uniform. Then—predictably—she "accidentally" spills her coffee on the floor I just spent hours cleaning.
"Oops," she says, making eye contact. "Aren't you going to clean that?"
I grit my teeth.
Of course. Another start-over moment. This company is cursed.
But if Kara thinks I'm going to let her walk all over me, she's got another thing coming.
I plaster on a fake smile. "Of course. You didn't even have to ask."
She smirks, satisfied.
Oh, honey. You really shouldn't be smirking.
I walk over to her desk, grab a white cotton sweater draped across the chair. It catches my eye because I recognize it—one of my dad's pieces. Or at least, a knockoff.
Almost flawless, but not quite. And I would know. I had ten of the originals.
I walk back, lock eyes with her, and drop the sweater onto the coffee stain—then start scrubbing it with my foot.
Kara shrieks. "What do you think you're doing?!"
I smile sweetly. "Cleaning up your mess. It took me a while to grab that rag from your desk, but thank you for bringing it."
"You psycho! Do you know how much that's worth? You couldn't afford that even if you worked here your entire life!"
A crowd has formed now. People gasp, whispering.
I tilt my head. "Funny you say that. Looks like you bought it cheap."
Her face twists. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It's a fake."
Gasps. More murmuring.
Her confidence wavers. Then she recovers with a loud, fake laugh. "A fake? That's cute. And how would you know that?"
I turn to the label and lift it. "Everyone knows Vale Originals have a crest stitched behind every tag. You can Google it."
The crowd leans in. There's no crest.
Kara's face drains of color.
Just as she's about to explode—
"What is going on here?" Julian's voice cuts through the room.
The crowd scatters, leaving a clear view of Kara red-faced, and me, scrubbing the floor with her ruined "designer" sweater.
She instantly starts sobbing, rushing to hide behind him.
"She attacked me! I don't know why she did it—I didn't do anything!"
Oh, hell.
I turn to Julian to explain. But he doesn't let me speak.
"In my office. Now."