The fluorescent lights on the fifty-second floor buzzed faintly, like tired insects trapped in glass. Their pale glow bled across the marble corridors of Blackstone Industries, casting hard shadows on surfaces that gleamed with wealth.
Isla Martinez pushed her cleaning cart past the massive, floor to ceiling windows. Beyond them, Manhattan stretched in glittering perfection, a skyline that seemed both alive and untouchable. Once, she would have paused to marvel at it. But now, after months of staring at the city while scrubbing its tallest towers, the sight barely registered.
Two-thirty in the morning. The hour of ghosts, as her grandmother used to say. But for people like Isla, there were no ghosts..only those who toiled unseen, keeping the empire of the rich spotless while its kings dreamed in silk sheets.
Her gloves squeaked against the spray bottle as she leaned into the executive conference table, attacking a stubborn coffee ring with stubborn determination. Every muscle in her shoulders burned after seven hours of wiping, scrubbing, vacuuming, and hauling out trash bags brimming with evidence of excess: half-eaten sushi rolls, designer water bottles, scrawled notes on deals worth more than she'd ever make in ten lifetimes.
She couldn't stop. Not when Emma was counting on her.
The vibration against her hip broke her rhythm. Her phone. She tugged it out, and the caller ID drained the warmth from her body: St. Mary's Hospital.
Her throat tightened as she answered. "Please tell me she's okay."
The nurse's voice on the other end was clipped, polite, practiced. "Miss Martinez? Emma's fever has spiked again. Dr. Peterson wants to adjust her treatment plan, but.."
The pause hung heavy. Isla's stomach dropped. "But what?"
There was a paper shuffle in the background, a sigh. "Your account is still past due. Administration requires payment before we can approve new medication."
Isla's knees threatened to give way. She steadied herself against the shining surface of the conference table,the same table where men in thousand dollar suits had the luxury to gamble with other people's livelihoods.
"How much?" she asked, though dread already whispered the answer.
"Twelve thousand for this month's treatment. The new medication Dr. Peterson recommends is experimental. Insurance won't cover it."
Twelve thousand. The number crushed her like a weight. Isla made eight hundred a week scrubbing offices that reeked of power and privilege. Even with double shifts, even selling everything she owned, it would never be enough. It was like chasing the horizon, no matter how fast she ran, it slipped further away.
"I'll get it," she forced out, her voice steadier than her pulse. "Tell Dr. Peterson I'll have the money by Friday."
A lie. A desperate, impossible lie. But she hung up before the nurse could ask how. Because Isla didn't have an answer.
Her phone lit again. A different number. One that made her want to hurl the device out the nearest window. Dad.
She almost ignored it, but old instincts made her swipe.
"Isla, I need to borrow.."
"No." Her reply was sharp, automatic, before he could even finish. "Whatever you lost at the casino tonight, I can't help you."
"It's not like that this time," Ramon slurred, his words thick with alcohol. "I had a sure thing, but.."
"There are no sure things, Dad. There never are." Her hand pressed against her forehead, the beginnings of a migraine pulsing behind her eyes. "Emma needs surgery. Real surgery. Not your gambling debts."
"Don't lecture me, little girl. I'm your father."
"Then act like one." The retort escaped before she could stop it, brittle with exhaustion. "Emma is dying, and you're still thinking about poker hands."
Silence stretched on the line. When he finally spoke again, his voice was low, heavy with bitterness. "You think you're better than me, cleaning toilets for rich people."
"At least I'm working. At least I'm trying to save her."
"Your mother never would've spoken to me like this."
That one cut. Her grip on the phone tightened until her knuckles whitened. Maria Martinez, her mother, had been gone four years now, stolen by the same illness that was dragging Emma under. Their mother had died waiting.., waiting for treatment that insurance refused to cover, waiting for a miracle that never came. The last thing she had smelled was hospital antiseptic. The last thing she had seen was her daughters' tears.
"Mom also never gambled away Emma's college fund," Isla whispered. "Goodnight, Dad."
She hung up and shoved the phone into her pocket, powering it off before it could betray her again. The silence of the building enveloped her, only the faint hum of air conditioning and the distant whoosh of traffic fifty-two stories below.
She caught her reflection in the polished black table. Twenty-three years old, but her face carried shadows well beyond her age. Stress etched faint lines around her amber eyes, her dark hair pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail that did little to soften the sharpness of her features. She wore the same navy uniform as every other cleaner meant to make her invisible, unremarkable.
But she wasn't stupid. Not invisible, not truly.
Night after night, as she scrubbed these sanctified halls of money, she listened. She read. She learned. She understood how leveraged buyouts unraveled empires, how a single decimal in a report could cost millions, how men with everything could destroy it all with arrogance. She'd even corrected a math error on a whiteboard once, though she erased it before anyone could see. A secret victory, invisible as she was.
If her life had tilted a little differently, if she'd finished college, if her mother hadn't gotten sick, if her father hadn't collapsed into addiction, maybe she'd be the one making decisions behind this gleaming table. But "if" was useless. "If" didn't pay hospital bills.
She forced herself back to her cart. Three more floors to finish before six a.m. Then home to Emma, a stolen nap, and her shift at the diner. Survival left no room for daydreams.
Still, her hand hovered over the elevator buttons. The service elevator groaned like a tired beast, and she hated the long wait. The executive elevator, sleek and silver, was technically off-limits. But at two-forty-seven in the morning, who was going to stop her?
She swiped her card and pressed 55. The top. The domain of Adrian Blackstone.
She had never seen him in person, but his presence haunted the building. His portrait glared down in the lobby: steel-gray eyes that seemed to strip you bare, hair dark and perfectly controlled, features sharp enough to cut. Forbes called him a visionary. Fortune called him ruthless. The cleaning staff whispered a different title when no one else could hear, The Ice King.
Isla had cleaned his office dozens of times, careful never to disturb the surgical order of his desk. Everything radiated control—polished leather chairs, shelves of untouched books, a crystal decanter filled with liquor worth more than her paycheck. His office didn't just say power. It hissed it.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. She wheeled her cart into the corridor, the lights flickering awake as though sensing her intrusion. The floor gleamed with marble so pristine it seemed sacrilegious to step on. Here, you didn't just walk, you trespassed.
Isla was halfway down the hall toward Blackstone's office when she froze.
Voices.
Low, harsh, angry voices—male, sharp with aggression—seeping through walls that were supposed to be soundproof.
Her pulse spiked. In all her eighteen months working here, she'd never seen anyone on the executive floor past midnight. Not a soul. The sound belonged to the boardroom, the one with the panoramic windows that seemed to stretch across the city itself.
She should leave. That was the smart choice. The safe choice. Just walk away, clock out, and pretend she heard nothing.
But something in the tone of those voices stopped her. It wasn't business. It wasn't a debate. It was darker, heavier, like something corrosive spilling into the night.
The shouting cut off. Silence dropped like a blade.
And then..
BANG.
The gunshot ripped the silence apart, echoing through the marble corridor like thunder.
Her blood ran cold.
BANG.
Another one.
She slapped a hand over her mouth, stifling the scream clawing its way up her throat. Her heart battered against her ribs as she pressed herself flat against the wall, desperate to make herself small, unseen.
Footsteps followed. Heavy. Deliberate. Moving across the conference room.
She had to run. She had to get out before—
Her elbow clipped the edge of her cart. A spray bottle rattled loudly against the others.
The footsteps stopped.