Mia thought she was just a hotel cleaner, but after a wealthy guest falsely accused her of theft, her life took a sharp turn. Unwilling to let him destroy her, Mia uncovered secrets that led to a stunning confrontation and a job offer that would change everything. I swear, if I have to scrub another toilet without so much as a thank you, I might lose it.
Every day feels the same. Push the heavy cart down the long, polished hallways, mop floors, wipe mirrors, and make beds that I’ll never sleep in. The hotel is gorgeous, sure—marble floors, chandeliers that look like they belong in a palace.
But me? I’m just here to clean. I’m 24 years old, and I feel like I’ve been working forever.
No fancy degree or family to fall back on. My parents didn’t care much when I packed up and left home at 18. I’ve been on my own ever since.
Two jobs—cleaning hotel rooms by day, waitressing by night. It’s not a life anyone dreams of, but it’s my reality. I push my cleaning cart to Room 805, bracing myself.
I know what’s waiting for me behind that door—a mess. Sliding the keycard, I open the door, and there he is—just like every other morning. He’s stretched out on the bed, grinning at me, a cocktail in his hand, even though it’s barely noon.
“Well, well, look who it is. My favorite maid,” he says, his voice dripping with fake charm. I don’t say anything.
I just start cleaning, pretending he’s not even there. I learned a long time ago that ignoring him is the best way to deal with it. “Why don’t you ever talk to me?” he asks, pushing his luck.
“You’re here every day. Might as well be friendly.”
I don’t answer. What’s the point?
Guys like him—they think the world owes them something just because they have money. I’ve seen enough of it in this place. He’s no different.
“You know, I could make life easier for you,” he continues, his voice lowering like he’s offering me some kind of deal. “You wouldn’t have to work so hard if you played nice.”
I stop scrubbing for a second, my jaw clenching. This is new.
I’ve heard his flirting before, but this is a step too far. I look up, meeting his eyes for the first time today, and they’re as smug as ever. “No thanks,” I say, my voice sharp.
“I’m just here to clean.”
His grin fades a little, but he shrugs, unbothered. “Your loss,” he mutters, turning back to his drink. I finish the bathroom, moving quickly.
I don’t want to be in here any longer than I have to. The air feels thick with his arrogance, and I need to get out before I say something I’ll regret. When I come out, he’s watching me again, still lounging on the bed like he owns the place.
“You know, you could at least say thank you when I’m being nice,” he says, his tone now a little more irritated. I grab the vacuum and start cleaning the carpet, pretending like I can’t hear him over the noise. “You’re really something, you know that?” he says, his voice louder now.
“I’ve had women beg for a chance to be in this room, and you can’t even smile.”
I stop. Just for a second. I want to turn around and tell him exactly what I think of him, but I don’t.
Instead, I take a deep breath and push the door open. I step into the hallway, the sound of the door closing behind me like a weight lifting off my shoulders. But the feeling doesn’t last.
Tomorrow, I’ll be back in that same room, cleaning up his mess again. I keep walking, thinking about how much I hate this place, this job, and that man in Room 805. A few weeks after my last run-in with him, I was cleaning Room 805 again.
The place was a mess, as usual—empty bottles scattered across the floor, sheets tangled in a pile, clothes thrown everywhere. I sighed, tying my hair back tighter as I started picking up after him. But today, something caught my eye.
I opened one of the drawers by the bed, expecting to find more junk. Instead, there was a wedding ring. Gold, simple, and tucked away like it was a secret.
I stared at it for a second, my fingers brushing over the band. He’s married? I made a mental note, though I didn’t think too much of it then. People hide all sorts of things in hotel rooms.
Still, it didn’t sit right with me. The next day, he was there again, lounging on the bed with that same smug grin. “You’re back,” he said, swirling the drink in his hand.
“Miss me?”
I ignored him, as always, and got to work. But today, he was more persistent. “Come on,” he said, sitting up.
“You could at least talk to me. I’m not that bad, am I?”
“You think I want to talk to you?” I shot back. “You think I want to listen to your garbage every day?
I’m here to do my job, not entertain you.”
His eyes narrowed, and I could see I’d hit a nerve. “Oh, so now you’ve got something to say? Maybe you should keep quiet and stay in your lane.”
I shoved the vacuum away, ready to walk out, but he wasn’t finished.
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