LILLY POV đź’¦
The smell of bleach clung to my skin, no matter how many times I washed my hands. I used to hate it. Now it smells like survival.
I pushed my cart across the marble floor of Westbridge's east wing, pretending not to hear the laughter bouncing off the halls—rich, untouchable laughter. The kind that said, we belong here.
I didn't.
A bell rang in the distance, signaling the end of another lecture. I kept my head down. One more hour. Then I could go home, make dinner, check my brother's homework, and maybe—maybe—study a little if I wasn't too tired.
That's when it happened.
I turned the corner too fast, and BAM. My mop bucket tipped. Cleaning bottles scattered like fallen soldiers. And I—
—I ran straight into him.
He looked expensive. Sharp jaw, expensive watch, silk shirt now soaked in lemon-scented disaster.
"Are you blind?" he snapped.
"I—I'm sorry," I stammered, scrambling to pick up the mess. "It was an accident—please, I'll clean it—"
Then I made it worse. I reached out with a cloth to wipe his shirt.
He shoved my hand away.
I stumbled back, landing hard on the floor. My pride hit harder.
For a second, something passed across his face—regret? Guilt? I wasn't sure. But then he turned and walked away, leaving me surrounded by suds and silence.
The silence rang louder than his voice.
I sat there, soaked and stunned, my cheeks burning. I could feel eyes on me from down the hall. Maybe students. Maybe staff. Maybe just ghosts of all the times I'd been told to know my place.
I swallowed hard and began picking up my supplies, one by one.
The bucket had rolled a few feet away. I limped over, dragging it back.
He didn't even say sorry.
Of course not. People like him didn't apologize to girls like me.
Still shaking, I pushed the cart forward and kept moving. That's what you do when you fall: you get up, even if it hurts.
I thought I was done with him.
But I was wrong.
đź’¦LUCA POVđź’¦
If I'd known I was about to be doused in dollar-store detergent by some girl with a mop, I would've stayed in bed.
But no. I'd decided to be generous today. Walk the long way to the quad, pass through the east wing, and maybe let the plebs get a good look at the man they all secretly wish they were. Big mistake.
One second, I was texting Ethan about the party this weekend. The next, I was soaked.
Soap. Disinfectant. A whole mop bucket's worth of filth exploded all over my shirt and blazer—tailored, Italian, not replaceable by anything found in a janitor's closet.
I stood there, dripping, blinking in disbelief.
She looked up at me, eyes wide. Pathetic. Panicked. "I—I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to—"
Of course she didn't mean to. They never mean to. Carelessness is practically a lifestyle when you live at the bottom.
Then—get this—she reached out to wipe my shirt with a rag. A literal rag. Probably touched a hundred cafeteria tables before it met my clothes.
"Are you insane?" I snapped.
I shoved her hand away without thinking.
She fell.
And for a second, just one second, something tight twisted in my chest. But I killed it fast.
I didn't offer a hand. Didn't speak. Didn't even look back.
Why should I? She was a cleaner. This was her mess. Let her clean it.
I walked away like I always do—head high, shoulders squared, world under control.
---
Later, in the cafeteria…
The usual chaos. People laughing too loud, flirting too hard, pretending this place was the center of the universe. I sat at our usual table—Ethan beside me, Julian across, Alex somewhere in between trying too hard to be funny.
I let them talk. I didn't care what the topic was. I never really did.
Ethan leaned in. "You throwing the party this weekend or what?"
"Obviously," I said. "Wouldn't be worth showing up if I didn't."
Then I saw her.
Across the room. Alone. Cleaning up trays students were too lazy to dump themselves. She moved like she was trying not to be seen.
I smirked.
The mop girl. Still scrubbing.
For a moment, I thought about going over. Teasing her. Maybe tossing a joke, something cruel wrapped in charm. The usual.
But I didn't.
I just watched.
Because even though she looked like she didn't belong in this place—
She didn't flinch. She didn't slow down. She just kept working.
There was something about that.
Something irritating.
Something I couldn't stop looking at.