CHAPTER 2
1279 Words
I do my job. I scrub floors, polish windows, and mop like my life depends on it—because, honestly, it kind of does. If there were ranks for hardworking janitors, I’d probably be a general by now.
I work at Megabuild Construction Company (MCC), one of the biggest names in housing services. And who’s at the top of this concrete empire? None other than Mr. Fabian, the CEO and chief architect, or as I like to call him, Mr. Fishy! Probably because his attitude is something like– you know, fishy.
I won’t lie—his talent is undeniable. He designs houses for the rich and famous, and sometimes, I daydream about him sketching a blueprint for my dream home. But let’s be real, that’s never happening. Besides, no matter how ridiculously good-looking he is—because, let’s be honest, hot and yummy are the right words—his attitude? Absolutely not my type. He’s arrogant, strict, and walks around like he owns the world. Which, technically, he does. But still.
I was in the middle of my well-deserved afternoon break, leaning against my mop like a battle-worn soldier, when my least favorite person in the office called out to me.
“Hey, Maurice!”
I groaned internally. Ugh, what now?
Turning around, I saw Beatrice, Mr. Fabian’s ever-so-annoying secretary. She’s basically my arch-nemesis, though she doesn’t know it. I swear, if she were in my shoes for a day—mopping floors, scrubbing toilets—she wouldn’t last an hour. But here she was, acting like she ran the whole company.
I blinked at her, hoping she'd disappear if I ignored her long enough. No luck.
“Kindly pick up the pieces of paper under my table,” she said, her tone dripping with fake sweetness.
Oh, the audacity! She really thought she was my boss. News flash, you’re not the one signing my paycheck, sweetie!
With an exaggerated sigh, I dragged my feet over to her cubicle. Honestly, all I wanted was five minutes of peace. But no, apparently, even that was too much to ask.
Dropping to my knees, I reached under her desk, collecting the crumpled papers like some kind of low-budget Cinderella. Gosh, do people even know what trash cans are for?
And then—disaster struck.
Cold liquid poured down on my head. My entire scalp, my face, my uniform—soaked. The sharp scent of coffee invaded my nose.
For a second, I just sat there, stunned.
“Oh, God! I’m sorry, Ms. Janitor.”
Her voice was fake as hell.
I blinked the coffee out of my eyes and looked up. There stood Beatrice, hand over her mouth in an exaggerated gasp, her expression caught between oops and hehe, I totally did that on purpose.
The worst part? She wasn’t alone.
Laughter erupted from the nearby employees. Some tried to stifle their giggles behind their hands, others openly smirked at my misery.
Beatrice, ever the drama queen, even put a hand on her chest like she was about to faint from guilt. “I didn’t mean it…” she said, voice syrupy sweet.
And then—she laughed.
Laughed.
As if dumping coffee on someone’s head was the funniest thing in the world.
As if I wasn’t a human being standing there, humiliated, coffee dripping from my face.
I clenched my fists, my pride burning hotter than the caffeine staining my uniform.
You know what? Fine.
If they wanted a show, I’d give them one.
I could feel the sticky warmth of the coffee seeping into my scalp, dripping down my neck, staining my uniform. The laughter around me rang in my ears, each chuckle slicing through my pride like a blade.
Oh, so you think this is funny?
Fine. Let’s see how funny it is when I turn this entire office upside down.
With slow, deliberate movements, I stood up from under the table, coffee still dripping from my hair like I was in some slow-motion revenge scene in a drama. My fingers curled around the handle of my mop. Not just any mop—my mop, my trusty weapon, my partner-in-crime in this daily battle for dignity.
The room fell silent as I walked toward Beatrice, my eyes locked onto hers. She must’ve sensed something was coming because she took a small step back, her fake shocked expression faltering. But it was too late for regrets.
I reached her desk, raised my mop, and—BAM!
I slammed it down hard against the table. Papers and documents went flying, cascading onto the floor like confetti at a chaotic parade. Pens rolled off the surface, her fancy organizer toppled, and her overpriced tumbler wobbled dangerously close to the edge.
The gasps from the other employees were almost satisfying. Oh, so now you’re all shocked? Where was this energy when Beatrice was humiliating me two minutes ago?
“W-What do you think you’re doing?!” Beatrice shrieked, stepping back in horror.
“What do I think I’m doing?” I echoed, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe just cleaning up the mess you made?” I shook my head dramatically. “Oops, I didn’t mean it…” I mimicked her earlier tone, my face twisting into an exaggerated version of her fake innocence. “Oh, God! I’m soooo sorry, Ms. Beatrice!”
Her face turned red—whether from embarrassment or rage, I couldn’t tell. Probably both.
Then, just like that, chaos erupted.
Beatrice lunged at me, her perfectly manicured nails reaching for my hair. Big mistake.
I dodged, grabbing a handful of her blouse instead, causing her to stumble. She yelped, and before I knew it, we were full-on catfighting in the middle of the office.
Her hands found my hair, but joke’s on her—I had it tied in the tightest ponytail known to mankind. Instead of pulling my hair loose, she just ended up jerking my head slightly, which only fueled my determination.
So I grabbed her hair right back.
And let me tell you, Beatrice’s silky, salon-treated locks were no match for my janitor grip.
Gasps and shouts filled the office as we went at it. Papers crumpled beneath our feet, chairs scraped against the floor, and someone screamed, “Oh my God, they’re actually fighting!” like this was some sort of underground wrestling match.
“Let go of me, you psycho!” Beatrice screeched, her face contorted in rage.
“You first, sweetheart,” I shot back, gripping her wrist as she desperately tried to claw at me.
Just as I was about to dunk her over her own desk because yes, I was that ready to go full WWE, a strong arm wrapped around my waist and yanked me backward.
“What the hell is going on here?”
The voice was deep, firm, authoritative.
I struggled against the grip, twisting around to see the person who dared to interrupt my well-deserved revenge.
Leland.
Our ever-serious, ever-annoyingly-protective assistant CEO, Leland Phineas.
His sharp eyes darted between me and Beatrice, his jaw tight with disapproval. His hold on my waist was firm, as if he knew I was two seconds away from launching myself at her again.
Beatrice, now looking like a disheveled mess, quickly played the victim. “S-Sir Leland! She attacked me out of nowhere!”
I scoffed, still struggling in his grip. “Oh, please! If anyone got attacked, it was me! Or did you already forget the part where you dumped coffee on my head?”
Leland sighed, clearly done with both of us. “Enough. Both of you. In my office. Now.”
- Writer
