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 endless polished hallways, mop floors, wipe mirrors, make beds I\u2019ll never sleep in. Smile when guests walk past, even when they don\u2019t see me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The hotel is gorgeous\u2014marble floors, chandeliers glittering like frozen fireworks, fresh orchids in the lobby. People come here to feel important. But me? I\u2019m just the invisible maid with sore feet and a paycheck that barely covers rent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019m only 24, but sometimes I feel twice that. My parents didn\u2019t care much when I left at 18. I\u2019ve been on my own ever since\u2014cleaning hotel rooms by day, waitressing by night. Not glamorous, but survival rarely is.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And then there\u2019s him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Room 805.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Every time I slide my keycard and push that door open, there he is: sprawled across the bed like he owns the world, drink in hand, smug grin plastered across his face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWell, well, look who it is. My favorite maid,\u201d he drawls, voice thick with arrogance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I keep my head down, focusing on the sink, the trash, anything but him. He thrives on attention. I\u2019ve learned silence is my only shield.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhy don\u2019t you ever talk to me?\u201d he presses, sipping his cocktail though it\u2019s barely noon. \u201cYou\u2019re here every day. Might as well be friendly.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Friendly. That\u2019s what he calls it. I call it suffocating.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou know,\u201d he lowers his voice, pretending he\u2019s doing me a favor, \u201cI could make life easier for you. You wouldn\u2019t have to work so hard if you played nice.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The next few weeks blurred into the same routine. Clean, endure his remarks, escape. But then one morning, while tidying his room, I opened the nightstand drawer and froze.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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