The morning sun filtered through the high-rise windows of Cross Enterprises, bathing the twenty-seventh floor in soft gold light. Arielle stood at the far end of the corridor, gripping the mop as though it were a lifeline.
Every inch of this place screamed you don't belong here.
The walls were lined with art worth more than her entire neighborhood. The floors gleamed like mirrors — not because they were clean, but because they had to be. And every person who walked past her this morning — assistants in pencil skirts, executives in sharp suits — looked at her like she was a stain someone forgot to wipe up.
She wasn't used to being invisible. But this was something worse.
She was seen — and judged — all in the same glance.
The cleaners weren't supposed to be here during office hours. But because her mother was still sick and the night staff was down two workers, Arielle had been asked to finish up early.
Just in and out. Quiet. Unseen.
Except nothing ever went quietly where he was concerned.
"Still here?" came a smooth, disdainful voice behind her.
She turned and found herself face to face with Damien Cross. Again.
He wasn't looking at her directly. He was scanning his phone, one brow raised in mild irritation, like her very presence was a glitch in his perfectly controlled life.
"Yes," she said, forcing her voice to stay steady. "Just finishing the corridor."
His eyes flicked up then, and for a moment, they locked.
Grey like winter. Cold. Calculating.
But curious.
"You know you're not supposed to be on this floor past seven," he said, slipping the phone into his pocket. "And certainly not while my executives are walking in."
"I'm just doing my job," she replied quietly.
"Are you?" His tone sharpened, laced with condescension. "Because right now, you're making the place look like a janitor's closet."
Her chest tightened, cheeks flushing with heat. It wasn't the words — it was the way he said them. Like he was speaking to something less than human.
He took a step closer, not out of aggression, but the kind of idle interest one might have in poking at a strange, defiant creature.
"What's your name again?"
"Arielle," she replied, lifting her chin. "Arielle Hayes."
He studied her like the name meant something — like it should be attached to pearls and private schools. But it wasn't. It was attached to a mop and secondhand sneakers.
"Right," he said finally. "Hayes. You're the cleaner's daughter."
She said nothing. There was no point in denying it.
"Interesting," he mused. "You carry yourself like someone who thinks she belongs here. That could be dangerous."
"And you speak like someone who forgets where he came from," she shot back.
Silence.
The elevator dinged.
Two female executives stepped out, chatting, but paused when they saw the scene in front of them: their boss — powerful, untouchable Damien Cross — standing far too close to a girl in a janitor's uniform.
They said nothing. But their looks said everything.
The cleaner's daughter. Talking to the CEO. How quaint.
Damien glanced over his shoulder and caught the look. He straightened, his expression turning unreadable again.
He walked past Arielle without another word.
But not before saying, quietly: "You're in over your head, Miss Hayes."
She didn't respond. Not because she didn't have words — but because she knew he was right. The air up here was thinner. And she didn't belong in his world.
But still… why did he look back at her before stepping into his office?
Why did he hesitate?
—
Later that day…
Arielle stood in the building's basement, stripping off her gloves. Her hands smelled faintly of bleach. Her shoes squished with cleaning solution. Her back ached from scrubbing floors no one would ever thank her for.
She checked her phone.
No messages.
No missed calls.
Just a reminder from the pharmacy: Mom's prescription ready for pickup. $72.00
Her shoulders slumped.
She didn't have $72. Not anymore. Not after rent. Not after the electric bill. And especially not after her paycheck was docked last week for being late — even though her bus broke down.
Life at the bottom of the ladder was merciless.
There were no second chances. No mistakes allowed.
And yet Damien Cross had looked at her like… like he saw her. Not just as a cleaner. Not just as a disruption.
But as a problem.
A distraction.
She didn't want to be anyone's distraction.
Especially not his.
---
Meanwhile, on the top floor…
Damien stared at the city skyline, hands in his pockets.
Arielle Hayes.
The name echoed like a challenge in his mind. There was something about her that didn't sit right with him — not because she'd done anything wrong, but because she hadn't flinched. She hadn't bowed her head. She hadn't apologized for breathing the same air as him.
That kind of pride? From someone like her?
Unacceptable.
And yet…
Intriguing.
He hated how intrigued he was.
She was the kind of girl he'd been raised to overlook. The kind his mother would call "low-class" without blinking. Someone whose name didn't belong in boardrooms or banquet halls.
But there she was.
Mop in hand.
Eyes burning like wildfire.
And for some reason, she wouldn't leave his head.
Damien clenched his jaw.
This wasn't how it was supposed to be.
He was Damien Cross. He didn't look twice at cleaners. He didn't get distracted. He didn't allow chaos into his carefully ordered life.
But she had stepped into his world and disrupted the silence like a flame dropped into gasoline.
And something told him this wasn't the end of it.
Not by a long shot.