Rain fell in thin, angry lines, soaking the cracked pavement and the thin fabric of Amara Cole's dress. She clutched her bag tighter as she hurried down the street, her shoes splashing through puddles she couldn't afford to ruin another pair on.
Late again.
Not because she was careless—but because life never waited for her.
The neon sign of Velora Hotel glowed ahead, mocking her. This was her third week working here as a cleaner, and she already knew one thing for sure: the place was beautiful only on the outside. Inside, it swallowed people whole.
She slipped through the staff entrance just as the security guard glanced at his watch.
"You're cutting it close, Amara," he said, not unkindly.
"I know. Sorry," she breathed, forcing a smile before rushing inside.
The air smelled of expensive perfume and polished marble. Guests in designer clothes moved past her without a glance, their laughter floating easily—like money had never been a problem for them.
Amara headed straight for the locker room, changed quickly, and tied her hair back. As she did, her phone vibrated.
Unknown Number: Don't forget tonight. We need the money.
Her chest tightened.
Her mother's hospital bills were overdue again. The landlord had already warned her twice. Every shift, every extra hour—she needed all of it.
She typed a quick reply.
Amara: I'm trying.
No reply came.
She pushed the phone away and grabbed her cart. Tonight's assignment was the executive floor—quiet, restricted, and usually empty. Usually.
As the elevator doors closed, Amara exhaled slowly. This job was meant to be simple: clean, don't talk, don't look, don't exist.
That rule had kept her safe.
Until the elevator stopped on the top floor.
The doors opened to a long, silent hallway lit by soft golden lights. The carpet was spotless, the walls lined with abstract art she didn't understand. She rolled her cart forward, her footsteps muffled.
Halfway down the corridor, she noticed something strange.
A door was open.
Executive rooms were never left open.
Amara hesitated. She told herself to turn around, to report it—but something pulled her closer. Slowly, she approached and peered inside.
The room was dim. Curtains half-drawn. A man stood by the window, his back to her, phone pressed to his ear.
"…I said no," he said coldly. "Handle it."
The voice sent a shiver down her spine.
Low. Controlled. Dangerous.
Amara stepped back instinctively—
And her cart hit the wall.
The sound echoed loudly.
The man turned.
Their eyes met.
For a second, the world froze.
He was tall, dressed in a dark suit that probably cost more than everything she owned. His face was sharp, striking—handsome in a way that felt almost unreal. But it was his eyes that caught her.
Dark. Watchful. Like he was always calculating.
"Who are you?" he asked.
Amara's heart slammed against her ribs. "I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—this door was open and I thought—"
"Staff aren't allowed here," he cut in, ending the call.
"I was assigned this floor," she said quickly, her voice shaking. "I can leave. I didn't see anything."
He studied her, gaze lingering too long. Not with interest—but with suspicion.
"Name."
"Amara. Amara Cole."
He repeated it slowly, as if testing how it sounded. "You're not supposed to be curious."
"I'm not," she said, lifting her chin despite her fear. "I just clean rooms."
Something flickered in his expression—amusement? Or annoyance?
"Then clean," he said, stepping aside. "And forget you were here."
She nodded immediately, pushing her cart inside, keeping her eyes down. Her hands trembled as she worked, the silence thick between them.
She could feel his presence even when he wasn't looking at her.
When she finished, she turned to leave—
"Wait."
She froze.
He held out his phone. "You dropped this."
Her phone.
She hadn't even noticed.
She took it carefully, their fingers brushing for the briefest second. A jolt ran through her—sharp, unexpected.
He noticed.
His gaze darkened.
"Be careful, Amara Cole," he said quietly. "People who wander into the wrong rooms don't always walk out unchanged."
Her breath caught.
"I didn't wander," she replied softly. "I was invited by circumstance."
For the first time, he smiled.
It wasn't warm.
It was dangerous.
As she stepped out of the room, her phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number: He knows who you are.
Amara's blood ran cold.
She turned back.
The door was closed.
And the man was gone.