The sun hadn't fully risen. Mrs. Grace Brooks stood in the kitchen, tying her wrapper tighter around her waist, barefoot on the cold floor. The kettle hissed gently on the stove. The tiny clock ticked. The house was quiet, except for the whisper of something sacred in the air.
On the counter sat a little lunchbox. Not fancy. But filled with love. She placed a tightly wrapped pack of jollof rice and spicy grilled plantains inside, with a small bottle of ginger water.
Behind her, Talia stood dressed in her best outfit. Neutral tones. Hair pulled back. Bag at her side. Her hands were trembling – just slightly.
Grace turned. I looked at her. And her heart swelled with pride and quiet ache.
"Come"
Talia walked over
"This food is simple. But I seasoned it with strength."
She smiled. Her throat tightened "Mama…"
She reached up and gently adjusted her collar "Don't let their marble floors make you feel small. You're walking in there with every prayer I've ever prayed."
(A pause)
"Eat when you're anxious. Don't forget to drink water. And if they talk too fast – breathe first, answer last."
(Talia couldn't help it. She pulled her mother into a hug, long and tight) "I'll make you proud."
"You already have."
And just like that, Talia stepped out into the world – into glass towers, high walls, and sharp men – not with armor….…but with her mother's food, her father's prayers and a heart that had never once broken under pressure.
WOLFE'S TOWER- LOBBY-7:45 a.m.
The automatic glass doors of Wolfe Tower hiss open, revealing Talia Brooks, 25, wide-eyed but visibly nervous. She clutches her simple handbag, her heels clicking a little too loud on the marbled floors. She's dressed neatly—but compared to the crisp, tailored suits rushing past her, she looks… out of place.
She steps forward—but the security gates don't open.
BEEP. ACCESS DENIED.
A line starts forming behind her. She tries again. BEEP. ACCESS DENIED.
A man behind her chuckles.
"Lost your key to the castle, newbie?"
Talia turns, trying not to show her panic.
A receptionist, barely looking up from her desk, waves a lazy hand toward a side door.
"Interns and juniors go through that entrance. Service elevator."
The direction points her toward a side corridor, dimly lit, cold, and industrial. A sign above reads: 'Deliveries / Janitorial Access.'
Whispers follow her. "Guess the princess missed the memo."
"Welcome to the bottom rung."
Talia forces a smile. Her chest tightens. She grips her bag harder.
She steps into a metallic, slow-moving elevator, paint peeling off the corners, humming like a broken generator. No music. Just the loud echo of her own breath and distant chatter from the floors above.
She catches her reflection in the elevator's dull surface—nervous, small, unsure.
"You said you were ready. So prove it."
The elevator jerks, making her stumble.
Talia Brooks stepped out – sharp, polished, beautiful in her quiet grace a tailored pink blouse, fitted charcoal trousers, neat hair pulled back, skin glowing like honey under morning light.
As she steps out—finally—into the sleek, sun-drenched floor of Wolfe & Co., heads turn.
Silence.
Then—
"That's the girl Adrian picked?" someone whispered.
"Came through the cleaner's shaft, I swear." Another added.
Talia squares her shoulders and walks past them—back straight, chin up, despite the heat in her eyes.
The camera lingers on the Wolfe & Co. logo on the wall behind her.
"This place eats people like me." she said to herself.
"But I'm not here to be devoured. She added sharply,
Alexander Blackwood's office – Wolfe Tower, 47th floor – 8:00 a.m.
The doors opened into silence. Alexander Blackwood stood by his desk, tablet in his hand, and ready for the usual formality. Until she stepped in. He forgot the protocol.
For one breathless second, he just stared. She looked more composed than her file had warned. But softer. Stronger. Disarming.
He paced behind his desk, tablet in hand, running through the orientation like it was a script he had rehearsed a thousand times.
"Mr. Wolfe prefers silence over small talk. Tea with two drops of lemon, not three. No perfume. No bright colors. Never sit unless invited. Never speak unless prompted. Clean is not enough – it must be immaculate."
Talia sat across from him, legs crossed neatly, back straight, nodding occasionally.
"Your uniform is your silence. Mr. Wolfe doesn't want charm. He wants efficiency."
"Understood" (she said softly)
Alexander's fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the tablet. Why was he suddenly aware of the way her blouse curved at the collarbone? Or the scent of coconut and citrus subtly clinging to her skin?
He blinked and looked away. Refocused.
"You'll be working on the executive floor. That includes cleaning, personal cooking, beverage prep, and occasionally handling errands"
"Errands like firing people for touching the wrong fork?" (She asked softly, one brow rose).
(He looked at her. She didn't flinch. He almost smiled.)
"Exactly." For a moment, silence stretched between them – charged. "You'll start immediately. I'll show you to his suite."
She rose and for a second – just one heartbeat – their shoulders nearly touched in the doorway.
"So sorry sir."
And with that, he pushed open the door, leading her down the corridor… towards the lion's den.
Wolfe Tower – Executive Corridor, 47th Floor – 8: 30 a.m.
The hallway was glass and silent.
Alexander Blackwood walked one step ahead of her, tablet in hand, posture stiff with control – as always. Talia Brooks followed quietly, arms close to her sides, eyes scanning the endless white walls and muted silver doors
But the air between them? It was far from neutral.
Even so often, he'd glance back – and every time he did, it was longer than it should've been.
The soft click of her heels. The quiet dignity in her walk. The way her eyes refused to drift, but stayed focused – steady.
She's different, he thought. Not because she's loud. But because she's quiet in all the places that should make noise.
He tried to focus on protocol.
"You'll speak only when addressed directly." (He said as they approached Wolfe's suite)
"Keep your eyes down. Do not take up space."
She nodded once. No sass. No attitude. Just… discipline. And for one suspended second, his world titled. There was no makeup. No perfume. No seduction. Yet his throat went dry. Her innocence wasn't fragile. It was fierce and that shook him. He cleared his throat. Focused again. Turned.
"One more thing," he said quietly, pausing in front of the door.
She tilted her head. "Yes?"
His eyes searched hers for a second longer than necessary.
"Adrian Wolfe won't see you." (He said, tone low) "Not really. He doesn't see people. He sees what they represent."
"And what do I represent" (she asked softly)
(His answer came slower this time)
"That's what I'm afraid to find out." (Talia blinked. But before she could speak again, he pressed the call button beside the door) "This is where I leave you."
(She nodded) "Thank you, Mr. Blackwood."
He turned. I walked away. Didn't look back. But for the first time in a very long time… he wanted to.
Adrian Wolfe's office – 8:45 a.m.
The doors opened with a quiet sigh of wealth and silence. Talia Brooks stepped inside – and for a breath, her world tilted.
The suite was massive. Two-story glass walls framed a skyline so sharp it looked unreal. The floors were polished obsidian, so clean they reflected her feet. Modern art lined the walls – bolds, abstract, priceless not paper out of place. Not a breath of warmth. It was less an office, more a palace of power.
And at the center of it – like a statue carved from rage and control – sat Adrian Wolfe.
He didn't look up. Didn't acknowledge her entrance. Just flipped through a black folder and said, like an afterthought:
"You're already late."
(She blinked) "Sir, I was told—''
"I don't care what you were told."(Still, he didn't look at her. He turned a page) "You're here to clean and cook. Not talk. Not ask. Please do not exist unless required."
(She stiffened slightly, folding her arms behind her back) "Yes, Sir."
He stood slowly, eyes finally lifting to meet hers. And the moment he looked at her – the air changed. But not in awe. In dismissal.
He scanned her from head to toe like she was a spilled cup of water he didn't want to step in.
"Too young, (he muttered) Too soft. Another mistake."
(He moved past her without slowing)
"The last woman, over-seasoned the salmon, couldn't properly clean a fork, and wore lip gloss. Fired."
(He circled the room like a lion disinterested in the prey)
"Do you know why you're really here, Miss….?"
"Brooks," (she whispered).
"Right. Miss Brooks. You're here because HR wants to feel like they've done something about the last incident. You're not special. You're… temporary cleanup."
Her chest tightened. Don't cry. Don't fold. Every sentence peeled a layer off her confidence.
(He turned to face her fully) "Let's set expectations. You will not speak unless asked. You will not explain. You will not smile at me. This is not friendship. This is not an opportunity. This is not your fairytale. This is a job. You are invisible. Act accordingly."
He waved towards the service hallway. "You start now."
She nodded — throat dry, knees stiff — and walked toward the door he gestured to, her heels quiet on the dark floor. Just before she exited, he added — not cruelly, but worse: carelessly.
"And wear something less… eager tomorrow. You look like you're here to impress someone."
Click.
The door closed behind her. And Talia Brooks, who had walked in wide-eyed…
…stepped out a little more broken.