The Seventh Daughter of Devil

The golden glow of the seven-star hotel seemed to mock John as he dragged the mop across the marble floor. Every inch of the lobby screamed luxury—the crystal chandeliers, the towering vases brimming with fresh lilies, the gold-accented furniture. Guests strolled by in tailored suits and glittering dresses, their laughter echoing through the air like bells of privilege. But for John, the only thing gleaming was the sweat on his brow. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and leaned on the mop for a moment, letting his aching back rest. As he glanced around, he caught a glimpse of himself in the polished glass doors. A tired man stared back—his uniform slightly faded, his shoes worn out. “John! Are you polishing those floors or admiring yourself?” Mr. Patel’s sharp voice jolted him out of his thoughts. John flinched and straightened up. “Yes, sir. Just finishing up.” Patel, his supervisor, walked up with his usual air of superiority. His shoes clicked against the marble, their shine rivaling the floors. “Let’s not forget who pays your salary, hmm? These floors should sparkle so much that our guests can see their souls in them.” John swallowed his frustration and nodded. “Yes, Mr. Patel.” As Patel walked away, John muttered under his breath, “Sure, I’ll polish the souls out of them while you sit in your air-conditioned office.” The hotel bar was buzzing with activity that night. Laughter and clinking glasses filled the space as wealthy guests indulged in expensive whiskey and champagne. John stood near the bar, polishing glasses while occasionally glancing at the crowd. A man in a crisp suit threw his arm around his companion, laughing loudly. “Can you believe it? I just spent $10,000 on a single watch. Ten thousand! And I didn’t even like it that much.” His companion chuckled, swirling his drink. “You should’ve bought the platinum one. It’s classier.” John’s grip tightened on the glass he was cleaning. Ten thousand dollars. That could feed his family for an entire year. That could pay off their debts and fix the leaking roof. “You okay there, mate?” the bartender asked, snapping John out of his thoughts. “Yeah. Just tired.” He forced a weak smile and went back to work. By the time his shift ended, it was past midnight. The bus ride home was long and quiet, the city’s neon lights fading into darkness as they passed into the poorer neighborhoods. John rested his head against the window, his thoughts spiraling. He thought of Tim and Alex, his two boys, and the way they always tried to hide their hunger. He thought of Martha, his wife, who often skipped meals so the kids could eat. Guilt clawed at his chest, heavy and suffocating. The bus stopped, and John stepped off onto the cracked pavement of their street. The contrast was jarring—no chandeliers here, just flickering streetlights and the distant hum of crickets. Martha was waiting for him at the small dining table when he walked in. She looked up from her sewing, her eyes tired but warm. “You’re late,” she said softly. “Patel needed me to redo the dining hall,” John replied, kicking off his shoes. “Apparently, it wasn’t ‘soul-reflective’ enough.” Martha chuckled weakly, setting her sewing aside. “You’re working too hard, John.” “I have to,” he said, sitting across from her. “Tim’s outgrown his shoes, Alex needs schoolbooks, and—” Martha reached across the table and placed a hand on his. “We’ll manage. We always do.” But John could see through her brave facade. He could see the weight she carried, the sacrifices she made. “I just want to give you and the boys a better life,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Something more than this.” Martha smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “We already have something more, John. We have each other.” Later that night, as John lay in bed, the day replayed in his mind like a broken record. The laughter of the rich, the sparkle of their jewelry, the careless way they threw around money—it haunted him. He glanced over at Martha, who had fallen asleep beside him. Her face was peaceful, but John knew the worries she carried. He thought of Alex and Tim, curled up in the next room, sharing a thin blanket. “They deserve so much more,” John whispered to himself. “Martha deserves rest. The boys deserve a childhood. Not… this.” The moonlight streamed through the cracks in the curtain, casting shadows on the ceiling. John stared at them, his thoughts spinning in circles. “There has to be a way out of this,” he thought. “There has to be more than just surviving.” John sitting up in bed, staring out the small window. His face is etched with determination as he whispers into the night: “I’ll find a way. No matter what it takes.”