I scrubbed the marble floor of the CEO's office while he discussed million-dollar deals above my head, as if I were part of the furniture.
I pushed my sleeve higher, grimacing as the water seeped under my fingers. Every day I reminded myself: this job wasn't about pride. It was survival. Tuition, rent, food—everything depended on the hours I worked and the tasks nobody else wanted to do.
The hum of the air conditioner mixed with the CEO's crisp voice as he barked orders over the phone. His shoes gleamed as if polished by angels, but I knew better—I had polished them myself this morning. And yesterday. And the day before.
I tightened my jaw, forcing down the familiar sting of resentment. Pride was dangerous, they said—but so was weakness. I refused to look small, even when the world insisted I should.
I scrubbed harder, each stroke of the mop a small rebellion against a world that underestimated me. Every drop of water, every streak of soap, reminded me that I was capable. That even if no one noticed, I would not let my circumstances define me.
Then the sharp tap of his heel on the marble stopped me mid-swipe. My heart stuttered as he finally glanced down, eyes cold and calculating. He didn't speak yet, but I knew. This man, who ruled a kingdom of glass and steel, had noticed me.
I straightened up, letting my spine lengthen with defiance. If he thought I would shrink or cower, he was wrong. I may have been low on the social ladder, but I still had rules. Boundaries. Pride.
For a long moment, he said nothing, just observed. I felt the weight of his gaze settle on me like gravity—heavy, unyielding, impossible to ignore. Most people would have crumbled, muttered apologies, tried to disappear. Not me. I met his eyes as best I could without giving him the satisfaction of seeing fear.
My thoughts ran wild. Who is he? Why is he looking? Does he think I'm just another girl to push around? I swallowed the tiny lump in my throat and reminded myself: I am not invisible. I am not weak. I am not desperate.
Minutes passed—or maybe seconds—but finally, he moved. The heels clicked again, and he returned to his calls, leaving me with the echo of power and unspoken authority lingering in the room. I exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain for a moment. But the spark had already lit.
A strange thrill, half fear and half defiance, ran through me. For the first time this week, I didn't feel small. I felt seen. And dangerous as it sounded, I liked it.
I bent again to scrub the next section of floor, my muscles protesting, my hands raw from the soap and water. Yet even in the exhaustion, I held my head high. Pride, stubbornness, survival—they were my allies. And I wasn't done proving myself.
Somewhere deep inside, I knew this wasn't just another day at work. This man—this empire of glass and steel—was about to change everything. I just didn't know how, or how much I would have to fight to keep my rules.
For now, I scrubbed. Cleaned. Endured. Survived. And silently promised myself: no one would ever make me feel small again.