I swear, if I have to scrub another toilet without so much as a thank you, I might lose it. Every day feels the same. I push the heavy cart down the long, polished hallways, mop the floors, wipe the mirrors, and make beds that I’ll never sleep in.
The hotel is gorgeous, sure—marble floors and chandeliers that look like they belong in a palace. But me? I’m just here to clean. I’m 24 years old, and I feel like I’ve been working forever. With no fancy degree or family to fall back on, I’ve been on my own since I left home at 18. I work two jobs—cleaning hotel rooms by day and waitressing by night. It’s not a life anyone dreams of, but it’s my reality.
I push my cart to Room 805, bracing myself. I know what’s waiting behind that door: a mess. Sliding the keycard, I open the door and there he is. He’s stretched out on the bed, grinning at me with a cocktail in his hand, even though it’s barely noon.
“Well, well, look who it is. My favorite maid,” he says, his voice dripping with fake charm.
I don’t say anything. I just start cleaning, pretending he’s not there. Ignoring him is the best way to deal with it.
“Why don’t you ever talk to me?” he asks, pushing his luck. “You’re here every day. Might as well be friendly.”
I don’t answer. Guys like him think the world owes them something just because they have money. He’s no different.
“You know, I could make life easier for you,” he continues, his voice lowering. “You wouldn’t have to work so hard if you played nice.”
I stop scrubbing, my jaw clenching. This is a step too far. I look up, meeting his smug eyes. “No thanks,” I say, my voice sharp. “I’m just here to clean.”
His grin fades, but he shrugs. “Your loss,” he mutters, turning back to his drink.
I finish the bathroom quickly; the air feels thick with his arrogance. When I come out, he’s still watching me. “You know, you could at least say thank you when I’m being nice,” he says, his tone now irritated.
I grab the vacuum and start cleaning the carpet, pretending I can’t hear him.
“You’re really something,” he shouts over the noise. “I’ve had women beg for a chance to be in this room, and you can’t even smile.”
I stop for a second, wanting to tell him exactly what I think, but I don’t. I take a deep breath and walk out. The door closing feels like a weight lifting, but I know I’ll be back tomorrow.
A few weeks later, I was cleaning Room 805 again. The place was a mess—bottles everywhere and clothes thrown about. But today, something caught my eye. I opened a bedside drawer and found a wedding ring. Gold, simple, and tucked away like a secret.
He’s married? I made a mental note. It didn’t sit right with me.
The next day, he was there again. “You’re back,” he said. “Miss me?”
“You think I want to talk to you?” I shot back. “I’m here to do my job, not entertain you.”
His eyes narrowed. “Maybe you should keep quiet and stay in your lane.”
I was ready to walk out, but he wasn’t finished. “You know what? I think I’m missing something,” he said with false concern. “My expensive watch. You didn’t happen to take it, did you?”
I froze. “You think I’d steal from you?”
He grinned. “You seem the type.”
Later that afternoon, the manager called me into the office. “I’m sorry, Mia,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “Mr. Williams has accused you of theft. We have to take these things seriously.”
“He’s lying! He’s doing this because I rejected him!” I shouted.
The manager just sighed. “We have to protect our guests. You’re fired.”
I left the hotel humiliated, but I wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. That night, I searched for “D. Williams” on social media. I found his wife—a beautiful woman involved in charity work. And there, on her finger in every photo, was the same wedding ring I had found in his drawer.
I sent her a direct message: “Hi, I’m a housekeeper at the hotel your husband is staying in. I found his wedding ring in his room, and he’s been with different women every night. You might want to see for yourself.”
Two days later, she showed up. I met her outside the hotel. Her face was pale but determined. “Are you the one who messaged me?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I think you need to see what’s going on.”
We walked to Room 805. I knocked. When the door opened, the look on his face was priceless. He went pale, eyes darting between me and his wife.
“Daniel,” she said, her voice trembling with rage. “Who is this?”
The girl in the room scrambled to get out. Daniel stammered for an excuse, but it was too late.
“I’m done,” his wife said. “You’ve been living off my family’s money, pretending to be something you’re not. We’re finished.”
I pointed to his wrist. “Funny how you’re wearing the watch you accused me of stealing.”
The next morning, the manager called me back and apologized, offering my job back. I took it, but I knew I wasn’t staying. A few days later, Daniel’s wife called me.
“Mia, I wanted to thank you,” she said. “I could use someone like you—smart, loyal, and tough. How would you feel about being my personal assistant?”
I was shocked. “Me? Your assistant?”
“I trust you,” she replied.
“I’m in,” I said. Finally, I was moving into a life I actually wanted to live.
