"Why are you breathing so heavily, Emma?" Mrs. Aria's sharp voice cuts through the bustling noise of the hotel. She's the head of housekeeping, her eyes narrowing as she scans my flushed face.
"I rushed down from the Douglas suite," I replied, my breath still catching in my throat. "I need to finish early so I can check on my mother and give her her medication."
Mrs. Aria shakes her head, her expression firm. "That's not going to happen. You still have plenty of rooms to clean, Emma."
A pang of guilt twists inside me, but I know there's nothing I can do. My mother will be waiting, but work comes first. "Yes, ma'am," I responded softly, resigned. I glance at the clock- time is slipping away, and there's no time for me to spare.
It's always hectic at the Dallas Hotel, but tonight's event - the grand party hosting the city's elite - has brought the pressure to a whole new level. Every detail must be perfect. The chandeliers are ablaze with light, casting a golden shade across the marble floors, while distant laughter and clinking glasses echo down the hallways.
The hotel feels alive, radiating with energy, as the wealthy guests begin to arrive in their luxury cars, draped in expensive designer attire. I try to block out the sounds of extravagance as I continue cleaning.
Life as a hotel cleaner isn't easy, but it pays the bills. It keeps a roof over my mother's head and provides the medication she desperately needs. That's what I remind myself as exhaustion creeps in.
"Emma," Mrs. Aria's voice cuts through my thoughts once more, sharper this time. "Make sure you double-check the suite in the west wing. The Cardwells are among the guests tonight, and I don't want to see a single speck of dust."
My heart skips at the mention of the Cardwells. Alex Cardwell - ruthless billionaire, feared by many in this city. His name alone sends a chill down my spine.
"Yes, ma'am," I reply, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, my eyes flicking back to the clock.
I return to scrubbing the floors, pushing through the pain in my hands and knees. Every corner has to sparkle tonight - no room for errors. The wealthy guests will soon be here, their polished shoes clicking across the very floors I'm cleaning.
My mother used to tell me stories about what it would be like to be rich, back when I was a little girl, before her health started failing.
"One day, Emma," she would say with hope in her voice, "you'll find your way out of here. You'll have a life where you don't have to work so hard."
I used to believe her. But that dream faded a long time ago. Now, my life is nothing but work, bills, and the constant worry of how to keep going. The same routine, day after day - scrubbing, dusting, polishing, with no end in sight.
I finish the last section of the floor and lean back on my heels to inspect my work. The room is spotless, every surface gleaming under the golden light. Just a few more tasks, and I can move on to the next room.
Suddenly, the door bursts open, slamming against the wall with a loud thud. I jumped, startled, my heart pounding in my chest.
A man stumbles in, his steps unsteady. His expensive suit is rough, his tie hanging loosely, and his hair is tousled, as if he's been running his hands through it in frustration.
Alex Cardwell.
I recognize him instantly - his face is everywhere: on magazine covers, on television, in business articles. The powerful billionaire who exudes charm and control. But the man in front of me now is far from that image. He's messy, unsteady, and very, very drunk.
"What... What is he doing here?" I mutter under my breath, panic rising in my chest. He shouldn't be here. Not in this part of the hotel.
"Wh...what are you doing here?" he slurs, his words thick with alcohol. His eyes, unfocused and glassy, struggle to meet mine as he sways on his feet.
"I... I'm just the cleaner, sir," I stammer, trying to walk away. The air feels heavy, suffocating, and I can't seem to catch my breath. Why is he here, alone?
He stumbles closer, his eyes darkening with something I can't quite place. There's a hunger in his gaze that sends a shiver down my spine.
Fear grips me as he grabs my arm. His grip is strong, painful even, and I try to pull away, but his fingers dig into my skin.
"You're beautiful," he murmurs, his breath reeking of alcohol.
"Please, you need to leave," I say, my voice trembling. I try to pull away again, more forcefully, but he's too strong.
"No, stay," he demands, his voice taking on a hard, commanding edge.
He yanks me closer, his eyes blazing with a drunken desire that terrifies me. **This is wrong. This is all wrong.**
I push against him, desperate to free myself, but it's like trying to move a wall. He's too strong, and I'm too tired.
Before I can react, his lips crash against mine. I gasp in shock - the kiss is rough, desperate, nothing like the tender touches I've once imagined. It's all wrong. So horribly wrong.
Tears spring to my eyes as the reality of what's happening sinks in. This can't be real. This can't be happening. Not to me. Not here.
"Stop, please!" I cry, my voice breaking as I pull away, stumbling backward. I trip over the cleaning bucket, my heart racing, fear choking me.
But he doesn't stop. He closes the distance between us, his eyes wild and unfocused. There's no escape.
His hands are everywhere—rough, insistent. The room spins around me as he pushes me onto the bed, tearing at my clothes.
I try to scream, to fight back, but my voice is lost in the chaos, swallowed by the fear that's closing in on me.
The last thing I remember is his weight crushing me, suffocating me, before everything goes black.