IN LOVE WITH HIS JANITOR

CHAPTER ONE Maria Claudia’s heels clicked nervously on the cold tiles as she stepped out of the rusty I'mNewark-bound bus. Her coat—second-hand and slightly oversized—flapped in the chilly morning breeze. She adjusted the strap of her handbag, held her breath, and stared up at the glittering steel tower that bore the name: Benson Oil Group. God, let this not be another disappointment. She was twenty-six, a first-class graduate in Economics, and had spent the last four years wearing out her shoes walking from one interview to the next. Every rejection carved a deeper hole in her self-worth until ambition became survival, and survival became desperation. “Janitorial Assistant,” the job listing read. "Beggars can't be choosers," she told herself as she pushed through the rotating doors. The lobby inside was a far cry from her neighborhood in Jersey City—elegant marble floors, chrome-finished counters, and the faint scent of jasmine diffusers floating through the air. It was the kind of place she used to dream about working in—not scrubbing its toilets. A lady in a navy blue pantsuit barely looked up as Maria approached the reception. “I’m Maria... Maria Claudia. I’m here for the janitorial position.” The receptionist's eyes dragged up Maria’s figure like a scanner—pausing on her faded jeans, her thrift-store coat, and scuffed boots. “Back entrance. Maintenance staff don’t use the front,” the woman said flatly, pointing toward a side corridor. Maria’s cheeks flushed as she murmured a “thank you,” and walked briskly away, already feeling like she didn't. Embarrassment was an understatement. The staff room in the basement smelled of bleach and despair. An elderly man handed her a pair of gloves and a blue uniform that hung shapeless on her small frame. “Stick to the sixth floor today,” he said without introduction. “Benson’s floor. Don’t touch his office unless told. And don’t get noticed.” Maria nodded silently, pressing her lips into a line. This wasn't a job; it was a lesson in humility. But she’d take it. Anything was better than another day spent refreshing her inbox for interview responses that never came. At 11:35 AM, with a mop in one hand and a bucket in the other, Maria stepped into the polished hallway of the executive floor. Silence echoed off the walls, and portraits of corporate milestones lined the corridor like silent judges. She was wiping a glass panel when the elevator doors dinged open behind her. She didn’t need to turn to know who had arrived—the air seemed to shift, tighten. She had read about Steve Benson in Forbes and seen his face in business magazines. A ruthless oil tycoon, self-made, worth over five billion dollars, with a reputation for firing employees on a whim. "Who let a street girl into my hallway?" The words were low and sharp—each syllable laced with ice. Maria turned, heart hammering, and faced the man in the grey Armani suit. He was taller than she’d expected. Clean-shaven jaw. Hawk-like eyes that had seen empires rise and fall. “Sir, I—I’m assigned to this floor—” “Not with those boots,” he snapped, gesturing to her worn-out shoes with a look of disgust. “And not with that hair. You smell like discount soap and fried onions. What agency thought it was a good idea to send you here?” Maria stood frozen. Her throat tightened, but she forced herself to speak. “I needed the job,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Steve’s eyes narrowed. “Then go need it somewhere else.” She expected to be escorted out. Expected security to march her down and that this humiliating encounter would be her last memory of working in a skyscraper. But no one came. An hour later, the supervisor found her curled up in a corner of the restroom, wiping silent tears with the edge of her sleeve. “You’re lucky,” the older woman whispered. If Benson didn’t fire you on the spot, it means he’s testing you. That man’s mind is a maze—cold, complicated, and unpredictable.” At 3:00 PM, Maria was summoned. She walked into the conference room where Steve Benson stood, arms crossed, facing the glass window. “Sit,” he said without turning around. She obeyed. “You said you needed the job,” he said finally. “Yes,” Maria replied. “What exactly do you need? A paycheck? Pity? Or purpose?” Maria blinked. She wasn’t sure what he meant, but she knew how to answer. “Purpose,” she said. “But I’ll take the paycheck too.” That earned her a sideways glance, just a flicker, like a c***k in granite. Steve walked over slowly and placed a file in front of her. This is Benson Oil Group’s waste audit report. It’s been sitting on my desk for six months. I haven’t had time for it. You have a degree in Economics, right? I remember reading it on your thin little résumé.” Maria’s jaw dropped slightly. Had he read it? “Yes.” “Good. Prove to me, you're more than a mop.” “But I thought I was just... the janitor.” Steve smirked. “Everyone starts somewhere. But not everyone finishes where they start.” That night, Maria stayed behind after hours. With trembling hands and tired eyes, she read page after page of figures, spreadsheets, and financial estimates. She hadn’t touched a professional document in years, but something inside her stirred—an old flame rekindled. As the clock neared midnight, she heard the soft sound of shoes tapping toward her. She looked up. Steve Benson stood at the doorway, watching her. "Still here?" "I thought you wanted me to prove myself," she said. He nodded slightly. “You missed something on page 9,” he said, turning to leave. “You’ll need to do better if you want to keep your second chance.” Maria blinked. Second chance? Was this a test—or a trap? She picked up the report again, flipping quickly to page 9. Her eyes skimmed over the numbers. Then she saw it. A discrepancy. And not just any discrepancy—a massive financial loophole that could cost the company millions. Her heart raced. Was it a mistake? Or something more? The night air turned cold. She wasn’t sure if she had just saved her job… or stepped into something way bigger than she could handle.