Chapter 5
1157 Words
Zayne’s POV
I didn't wake up with any expectations that morning. Just the usual buzz in my head and the constant ache in my feet from walking too much. I had three deliveries lined up before 10 AM and Mildred's name was the last one on the slip. Again.
She'd ordered shawarma this time. Not pizza. I figured that meant she was in a slightly better mood. Maybe even civil. I was wrong.
When I got to her company building, the receptionist gave me a look like she’d just sniffed a rat. I signed in, gave a smile and she didn’t return, and took the elevator to the top floor. Her company name was etched in gold letters on the wall: Mildred Jewels International Holdings. Fancy name for a place that dripped coldness.
The hallway leading to her office was silent, except for the occasional clack of heels on marble and the hum of printers. People walked fast. No one said good morning. Everyone here is just as cold as her, maybe that's why they are fit for the job.
I knocked once, then opened the door slowly. Her secretary looked up from her desk, adjusting her glasses.
"You again," she muttered.
"Yeah. Shawarma this time," I said, trying to lighten the mood. "Maybe next week she’ll order how to treat people."
She didn’t laugh.
"She’s in a mood today. Be careful."
"Isn’t she always?"
The secretary said nothing. Just waved me in.
I pushed the office door open with my elbow, balancing the bag of shawarma in my hand. The room was massive, all glass and steel and spotless surfaces. A big desk sat near the window, behind it was Mildred, looking like a statue carved from ice. Her coat was off. She wore a white blouse, buttoned high, not a strand of her hair out of place.
She didn’t look up right away. Just stared at her screen, brows drawn, lips tight.
I stepped in. “Hey. You ordered shawarma—"
“Who told you to speak?”
Her voice was sharp, flat. She still didn’t look at me.
I stood there, silent.
She reached for the cup of coffee sitting on the edge of her desk, brought to her by her secretary minutes before. Her fingers curled around it, slow and deliberate.
“This tastes like garbage,” she muttered, taking a sip. Then her eyes flicked to me. "So, what now? You think smiling like a poor little puppy will change the fact that you're standing in my office stinking of sweat and cheap bread?"
I blinked. "I just came to drop your order. That’s all."
"Then why are you still standing there?"
I was about to set the bag on her desk when it happened. She stood. I walked around the desk. In one swift motion, she raised the cup and poured the entire thing—piping hot coffee—onto my hand.
It was instant.
The burn screamed through my skin. I dropped the bag, doubled over, sucking in air.
"Ahh! s**t!"
The pain was blinding. The heat clung to my skin like it had teeth. My hand went red instantly, and I could barely think.
And all she did was watch.
Her eyes didn’t flicker. Her face didn’t move.
“You should’ve stayed in your place,” she said, voice calm. “But no, you had to be clumsy and stand too close. You brought this on yourself.”
I gritted my teeth, cradling my hand, looking up at her through the haze of pain.
“You seriously think trying to cool the air when I walk in is clumsy? You poured a hot cup of coffee on my hand, what sort of person are you? Do you even have a heart? Why the hell do you treat poor people like this? Is it our fault that we're broke and not up to your standards?”
She tilted her head. “Are you dense? Do you think the world owes you softness because you’re poor? Because your shoes look like they came out of a trash bin?”
I couldn’t breathe for a second. The pain in my hand was sharp, raw, and her words were knives layered over it.
“You think insulting people makes you powerful? Treating human beings as trash, have you looked back to the one time you were struggling to build this company of yours? Did anyone treat you this way?
She smiled. Cold. Cruel.
“Mister delivery boy, mind your tongue, I'm a princess in my father's house, I only choose to become independent and create a name of my own without anyone's help. Luckily for me I had multiple investors investing in my company even without the aid of my parents money, or their name. So mind the way you speak to me, don't forget your place.”
“And I don’t insult people, Ryan. I will describe them. Now, clean up that mess and get out of my office.”
She pointed to the spilled shawarma bag on her clean floor. And the spilled coffee. The cream of the sharwama had leaked onto her polished tiles. The wrappers were smeared with oil.
I straightened slowly, still clutching my hand.
“My job,” I said through my teeth, “is to deliver orders. Not to clean up after people who treat others like dirt. You have workers don't you? I'm sure you have a cleaner too? Why not ask her to clean up your mess.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” I met her gaze, even though it burned inside. “You don’t get to humiliate people and expect them to stay quiet. I came here to do my job, not to be your punching bag. You think you’re untouchable because you have money? Because you sit behind a big desk and sign papers? That doesn’t make you better. It just makes you colder. You don't value the less privileged at all.”
Her lips twitched like she was amused.
“You talk too much for someone who can’t afford socks without holes.”
“Maybe not today, but I believe hard work pays, someday I'll be able to afford socks without holes.”
I shook my head. “One day, you’ll realize that stepping on people doesn’t lift you any higher. It just leaves you empty at the top.”
She scoffed and walked back to her chair, turning her back to me like I was nothing.
“Get out,” she said.
I didn’t move right away. I looked down at the mess, the bag still open, food ruined. I looked at my hand, already swelling. And then I looked at her—the woman sitting behind a desk of glass, with no heart in her chest.
Then I walked out.
And this time, I didn’t look back.
Day 4 of 7.
- Writer
