The First Day In Hell
1161 Words
MAYA
Turns out, owning fifty-one percent of a company doesn't stop the CEO from making you fetch his dry cleaning.
"Coffee," Dominic said at 9:02 AM, not looking up from his laptop.
"Venti iced americano, three shots, light ice, room temperature water on the side. From the Starbucks on Pine, not the one in the lobby. They burn their shots."
I stood in the doorway wearing the only blazer I owned. Target, three years old, sleeves too short. Next to Dominic in his custom suit, I looked like I'd wandered in from the street.
"Good morning to you too," I said.
His grey eyes flicked up. Cold and sharp.
"This isn't a social call, Ms. Sullivan. It's your job. Do you understand the concept?"
My jaw clenched. I wanted to tell him exactly where he could shove his coffee order. But I needed this, I needed the salary. I needed the year to figure out what Marcus had really left me.
"Pine Street Starbucks," I repeated.
"Anything else?"
"That's just the beginning."
He wasn't lying.
By noon, I'd run four coffee errands. Picked up his dry cleaning from Pacific Heights. Reorganized his contact list. Scheduled three appointments, including dinner with someone named Vanessa who texted him with way too many heart emojis.
The last task stung more than it should have. I told myself I didn't care who Dominic Chen dated. I told myself the clench in my stomach was just hunger. Told myself a lot of lies.
At 2 PM, he handed me a key card.
"Storage room. Sub-basement level three. Files from 2015 to 2020 need cataloging and digitizing. Start with manufacturing."
"You're joking."
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
He didn't. His face was stone, beautiful and cruel. I took the key card, fingers brushing his for half a second. The contact sent electricity up my arm. His eyes darkened, just barely, before that wall slammed back down.
"How long do I have?"
"However long it takes."
The sub-basement smelled like dust and old paper. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, half flickering. The storage room was massive, rows of metal shelves packed with banker's boxes stretching into shadows.
I found the manufacturing section, pulled the first box down. Inside were contracts, purchase orders, shipping manifests. Nothing interesting.
But I kept looking.
Maya Sullivan had survived five years of poverty by being scrappy. By finding angles.
If Dominic thought menial tasks would break me, he didn't know what I'd already survived.
The coffee runs taught me the building's layout. Which hallways had cameras. Which ones security guards ignored. I'd chatted with Tom, the facilities manager, while waiting for Dominic's latte.
"Been here thirty years," Tom had said.
"Watched Mr. Chen build this place from nothing. Good man."
"What about the factories?" I'd asked casually.
"Overseas operations?"
Tom's expression shifted. Uncomfortable.
"That's above my pay grade, miss."
But his tone said plenty.
Now, in the storage room, I opened my fifth box. More files. Then my sixth. Seventh. Then I found one labeled differently.
Factory Safety Reviews 2019-2021.
My heart hammered as I pulled it down. I opened it carefully.
Inside were reports. Thick ones, official letterhead, marked confidential. Vietnam Factory Inspection, March 2019. Bangladesh Facility Audit, November 2020. Mexico Plant Safety Review, June 2021.
I pulled out the Vietnam report. The first page was summary findings. My stomach turned.
Eighteen OSHA violations. Inadequate fire exits. Exposed electrical wiring. Workers handling toxic chemicals without proper ventilation or protective equipment. Accident rate three times industry standard.
Recommendation: Immediate closure pending renovations.
I flipped to the next page. Resolution: Paid settlement to worker families. Implemented minimal safety upgrades. The facility remained operational.
The words "minimal safety upgrades" were highlighted in yellow.
April 2019. Four years ago. I'd been fighting with Ryan, completely unaware that a factory on the other side of the world was killing people so Chen Technologies could save money on renovations.
My hands shook as I pulled out my phone. Started photographing pages. The violations. The accident reports. Settlement amounts. Twenty thousand dollars to a family whose father died. Fifty thousand to a mother who lost her son.
Blood money.
I photographed everything. Bangladesh showed the same pattern. Mexico too. Violations ignored. Accidents covered up. Workers were treated like they were disposable.
This was what Marcus had meant. The company built on suffering.
I heard footsteps. Too late.
"Looking for something?"
I spun around. Dominic stood at the end of the aisle, backlit by fluorescent lights. His voice was dangerous. Quiet and lethal.
I clutched my phone, the screen still showing the last photo. A report detailing three workers hospitalized for chemical burns.
"The truth," I said. "Marcus said you'd try to stop me."
Something flashed across his face. Anger, maybe. Or hurt.
"Marcus said a lot of things apparently. None of them to me."
He moved closer. Each step is deliberate. I backed up until my spine hit the metal shelves. He stopped just inches away, close enough that I could smell his cologne. Close enough to see the muscle jumping in his jaw.
"Those reports are confidential," he said.
"Those reports are evidence."
"Of what? Standard industry practices? Every company deals with factory incidents. We paid settlements. We made improvements."
"Minimal improvements." I held up my phone.
"While people kept dying."
His eyes dropped to my screen, then back to my face. The anger there was molten, barely contained. But underneath it, something that looked like fear.
"You don't understand what you're looking at."
"I understand just fine. This company is built on blood. Marcus knew it. That's why he gave me controlling interest. To fix it or burn it down."
Dominic's hand shot out, not touching me but trapping me against the shelves. His arm braced beside my head. The heat of him was overwhelming.
"You think you can burn down a three-billion-dollar company? You can't even afford decent shoes."
The insult landed. I felt it like a slap. But I'd learned long ago that showing weakness was the same as losing.
"At least I can afford a conscience," I shot back.
His jaw clenched so hard I heard his teeth grind. We stared at each other, the tension nuclear. My pulse raced. His breathing had gone shallow. For one insane second, I thought he might kiss me or kill me. The line between the two felt razor-thin.
Then his phone rang.
The spell shattered. Dominic stepped back, pulling out his phone. His expression went from fury to professional in half a second.
"What?" He listened, his face darkening.
"When? I'll be right there."
He ended the call, looked at me one last time. The danger was still there, simmering under that perfect control.
"Emergency board meeting. Delete those photos, Ms. Sullivan."
He walked away, his footsteps echoing in the concrete space.
I waited until the door slammed. Then I opened my phone and backed up every single photo to the cloud.
I didn't delete a thing.
- Writer
