CONTRACTED TO DIEON MAFIA KING

The Get-together.

Chapter 2: The Get-Together

Dieon Tower is beautiful. And brutal.

From the outside it’s all glass and steel, 60 floors catching the Swedish sun like it’s trying to blind the city. Inside, the floors are marble that costs more than my rent. The chandeliers are crystal. The coffee in the staff room is imported from Colombia.

Heartless. Cruel. The richest family in Sweden.

But they’re not my enemy.

Enemy is a strong word. Enemy means they see you. The Dieons don’t see cleaners. To them we’re part of the building. Like the AC. Like the pipes. Invisible until something leaks. Invisible until we make a mistake.

Mrs. Smith made a mistake.

I drag my mop down the corridor leading to the main entrance while my mind replays her tears. She didn’t lose her job because she was slow. She lost it because she took things home. Leftovers. Small things. A perfume tester. A box of chocolates from the VIP lounge. A half-used bottle of Dieon cologne someone left in the executive bathroom.

“Theft,” the supervisor called it.

“Survival,” Mrs. Smith whispered back.

Dieon doesn’t care about reasons. Their rule is printed on the staff room wall: _Zero tolerance for theft. Staff are replaceable. Reputation is not._

Heartless. But fair, in their own way. You play by their rules or you vanish. I learned that at 19. That’s why I’ve stayed invisible for 3 years.

My mop moves in steady strokes. Wrist to floor. Push. Pull. The marble gleams under me. No streaks. Streaks mean attention. Attention means trouble.

“Candy! Stop acting like that floor owes you money.”

Alima. My only friend in this building. 24. Curly hair she hides under her cap. Always talking. Always knows things before they happen.

She leans on her cart, glass cleaner in one hand, gossip in the other. That’s her real job.

“Did you hear?” she whispers, eyes bright. “The CEO is coming today. Unannounced visit. Stills called it a ‘routine inspection’ but everyone knows what that means.”

My hand slips. The mop handle nearly hits the floor. I catch it. No noise. No mess.

“Mustapha Dieon,” Alima says the name like a prayer. “He hasn’t been here in months. And he’s bringing the whole family for the yearly get-together tonight. Partners, investors, their kids. All the young handsome ones.”

I smile. Small. Embarrassed. Can’t help it. The name hits my chest weird. Mustapha Dieon. 28. CEO. The man whose face I’ve seen on business magazines people leave in waiting rooms. The man whose voice I heard once, through a glass door, giving orders that made millionaires nod.

Alima sees it. Her smile fades. She steps closer, drops her voice.

“Candy.” Warning in her tone. “Don’t. Just… don’t. I know that look.”

I keep mopping. Push. Pull.

“Mustapha isn’t your level,” she says gently. Then harder: “He isn’t anyone’s level except his own. You know that. We clean where he walks. That’s all we do.”

The smile on my face dies. Fast. Like someone blew out a candle.

Because she’s right. Brutally right.

Mustapha Dieon was born in a penthouse. I was born in debt. He wears suits worth more than 5 years of my life. I wear gloves with holes in the fingers.

What Alima just said is truth. Hard, cold truth.

I guess I’ll just keep crushing on him from this angle. This angle meaning from my poor class. From the floor. From the shadows where invisible people watch gods walk past.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I know.”

Alima squeezes my arm. Then goes back to spraying glass cleaner, but her eyes keep flicking to me. Checking. Guarding. That’s what friends do.

I focus on the corridor. This is my section today. The main entrance hall. 40 meters of marble, glass doors, and a reception desk that looks like art.

I’m halfway down when the doors slide open.

The air shifts. Temperature drops half a degree.

Heads turn at reception. Security straightens. Even the plants seem to stand taller.

Mustapha Dieon walks in.

Tall. Broad shoulders that fill the doorway. Dark eyes, sharp and assessing, scanning the lobby like he owns it. Because he does. Sharp jaw, clean shave, black suit tailored to his body like it was sewn onto him. Expensive watch catching light at his wrist. He doesn’t walk. He arrives. An aura of power and money clings to him, heavy as the cologne he wears. Dark and expensive. Dieon No. 7.

My heart forgets how to beat.

I can’t help it. My eyes lock on him. I’m literally drooling. Not with my mouth, but with my whole body. Look. Watch. Breathe. Don’t exist.

He passes 3 meters from me. Close enough that I smell his cologne over the bleach. Close enough that I see the small scar above his left eyebrow from a photo I saw online.

He doesn’t glance at me.

Why would he? I’m part of the floor. Part of the air. Invisible until I mess up.

He walks past, flanked by two security men. His voice is low as he speaks to the receptionist. Orders. No questions. Just orders. The lobby bends for him.

I force myself to keep mopping. Push. Pull. Don’t shake. Don’t cry. Don’t be stupid.

“See?” Alima whispers from behind a pillar. “That. That right there is why you can’t.”

I nod. Once. Sharp. Like I’m punishing myself.

Five minutes later he’s gone. Upstairs in the private elevator. The air in the lobby returns to normal. But my hands are still shaking.

Alima rolls her cart over. “You okay?”

“No,” I admit. Quiet. “But I will be.”

She sighs. “The get-together is tonight. 8 PM. Ballroom on the 50th floor. Mustapha, his parents, his sister, all his young handsome friends. Investors from London, Dubai. The whole Dieon circle.”

She pauses. Then grins, mischievous. “And us. Cleaners. We prep the ballroom. We serve water. We stand in the corners.”

My eyes widen.

“More than a glance,” Alima says, bumping my shoulder. “At least you’ll see him longer than three seconds. Maybe he’ll even look your way if you drop a tray.”

I should laugh. I should roll my eyes. Instead I feel something dangerous bloom in my chest. Hope.

Stupid. Dangerous. But real.

Tonight. 8 PM. Ballroom. Mustapha. His family. His friends.

At least I’ll see him more than once. At least I won’t be invisible for just three seconds.

I grip my mop tighter. Push. Pull.

Fourteen hours until the Demons want $8,000.

But for the next few hours, I let myself be excited. About a get-together. About a glance that lasts longer than a heartbeat.