The mop handle is still in my hand when I hear the elevator chime. I freeze. It's 5:47 a.m.—no one comes up to the executive floor this early. That's the whole point of the night shift. I get to clean in peace, no executives pretending I'm invisible while I scrub their imported marble. The elevator doors slide open. Vivienne steps out. My wife. Except she doesn't look at me the way a wife should look at her husband. She looks at me the way she looked at the houseplant she had removed from her office last month. Unnecessary. Slightly offensive. She's in a charcoal suit that probably costs more than I make in six months. Her dark hair is pulled back so tight it could cut glass. Everything about her is sharp—the line of her jaw, the click of her heels, the way her pale gray eyes sweep over me and find me lacking. "Everett." My name sounds like a diagnosis. I realize I'm still holding the mop. Still wearing the navy uniform with "Harlow Industries Maintenance" stitched over the pocket. I set the mop in the bucket, but the damage is done. "Vivienne. You're early." "I'm on time." She pulls an envelope from her bag. Cream-colored, expensive. "You're the one who's late." I don't understand. Late for what? She holds out the envelope. I don't take it. "Three years," she says. "I gave you three years to become something. Anything. You're still mopping floors in the building my family owns." The elevator chimes again. The doors open, and I see faces I recognize—board members, senior executives. They step into the lobby and stop when they see us. See me. In my uniform. Holding a mop. Vivienne doesn't turn around. She knows they're there. She planned this. "I'm filing for divorce," she says, loud enough for everyone to hear. "You have one hour to clear out your locker. Security will escort you out at seven a.m. Don't make this harder than it needs to be." She drops the envelope at my feet. It lands in the puddle of dirty mop water, and no one moves to pick it up. --- #