Page 34 of The Silent Princess

“If you ever need… I have a fourth mattress at home. It wouldn’t be as grand as your house, but, you know, it’s there if you ever…” She does not finish her sentence, and I offer her a smile, holding all the affection I have for her, bowing my head to show her I heard her clearly and will keep this option in the back of my mind. If I had had a big sister, I wish it had been Anja.

“Thank you,” I say. She blows me a kiss as the doors close, my back finding the wall, my knuckles touching my cheek gently. A dim sanguine light welcomes me to the thirty-second floor, its scent clinical and airy. I step forward, catching any sound that could betray a presence. Alas, it is only me. Why would he be here? He is a CEO with most likely enormous responsibilities and better things to do than chat with a maid at nine pm. A pang of disappointment hits my stomach, but I shake it off. Today was already difficult enough, but it is not over. I can still spin it around and finish on a high note, with a job well done and a good podcast. At this point, my ability to find joy is the only button I can control. I would bet my life on the fact that even prisoners find paper-thin joy in watching the sunrise from their cell windows. If they do, then so can I.

Putting in my earplugs–which only work in the right ear, the other one fighting for its life- I start my shift. Office after office. Dust. Mop. Make it shine, pretty, and perfectly welcoming for the person coming in a few hours. Some of them have frames on their desks, and I like to give them names and stories, picturing them losing their keys, drinking milk from a bottle, chatting with their cousins, or waiting in line for coffee. Despite the obvious financial gap between them and me, we are all part of the human experience, and so, in a way, we share similarities, even if it is only an illusion I like to tell myself.

At my first job, working in a disgusting building left in disarray for months, Anja gave me a few pieces of advice. Lavender perfume right under my nose to repel the smell of rot, and also that cleaning a stretchy, dirty place could be seen in another light. That I could imagine my family waiting with suitcases at the door for a night of sleep, and that to provide them with the respite of a safe place to sleep, I would need to clean it properly, the best way I could. And so I did. And I never stopped. As if each person were someone I knew, so I could not afford to leave a garbage bag behind me or a dirty cloth on a desk. I could not neglect my work for the sake of coming home sooner. I needed to do it like I would for a relative, a neighbor, a dear friend who needed it. The thought warms my heart a bit more, and I scrub the kitchen sink harder, clapping my hands after the metal turns shiny. A tired sigh leaves me, and I rub my forehead with the back of my hand. One more to do, and I will be home. I gather my tools and make my way to Tristan Ashford’s door. CEO shines on the door, right below his name. Our worlds could not be more different. It was nice, though, to exchange a moment of joy together, as fleeting as it was.

I circle his large rectangular desk, looking for a spot to clean, but there is none. My fingers run over the sleek surface, coming away dust-free. Did he hire somebody else to do my job? With a quick look over his bookshelf and chess set, I find the same thing. No dust. No ring from a coffee mug. Not even a tiny trace of shredded paper on his floor. I lick my lips, molar against molar. If he has an issue with the way I clean, he should have told me, but having somebody else do my work is…is…

“Something the matter, princess?” A familiar low and heavy voice echoes behind my back as I face his desk.

Tristan.

I spin, facing him, ready to sign and object to the situation, but my attention drifts to his appearance instead. Jeans and a thick black vest, looking almost like a policeman, his upper cheek red and bleeding over his jaw, a wicked look in his eyes, almost as if I am the one wearing blood on my face. My brows furrow in immediate response, and I cannot help but rush to him, checking his wound.

“Hey,” he murmurs as I lift my hand, stopping midair, my fingers a centimeter from his skin, wanting to clean the wound and assess it. “Barely a scratch, Ella. You should see the other guy,” he chuckles with that lazy, uneven smile that does things to me I did not know I could feel. My lips part in silence as his green eyes zero in on them. “Go sit over there,” he orders calmly. And I obey because his voice sounds like a hand tearing me away from a house on fire.

I make my way to the chess set, sitting with his sailboat photograph in front of me as he comes closer, standing beside me, his hand twitching, betraying his calm composure.

“What happened?” I sign. “Let me fetch an emergency kit to clean your wound.”

“It’s not necessary,” he signs back. I pout, angry because, one, he hired someone else to clean his office, and two, he refuses to let me take care of him.

He shuts his eyes, as if fighting the idea, then says, “Under the kitchen sink, on your right near the elevator.” So I can make a point with him. Without waiting a second more, I stand, brush past his shoulder, try to ignore the electric current caused by our collision, and aim for the kit. I pass the elevator, then find the kitchen I have cleaned and polished so much I can see my reflection in the faucet. Tool kit. Tool kit. Right. Here. Perfect. Holding the box against my chest, I come back to his office, noticing how he’s now leaning half-seated on the arm of the chair, eyes on me.

“Over there.” He motions with his chin toward his desk. I follow him as he saunters to it, resting his lower back against the edge. His chair remains empty, and I realize he expects me to sit there. With a hard shake of my head, I rest the box on the desk, open it, and look for disinfectant and cotton pads. “Is there an issue with you sitting in my chair, Ella?” he says out loud, disturbing our silence with his Ella this, Ella that. Does he not understand what effect it has on me? When he says my name, rolling those two syllables into the air with a whiskey-tinged kind of voice, setting my blood on fire?

“It’s your chair, sir. I cannot sit there. It wouldn’t be proper,” I sign, both of us standing near the desk, his body so close he could simply reach for me and hold my hand.

“Proper,” he repeats, muttering the word to himself. “Tell me, Ella,” he says again. “You want to clean my wound, but you won’t sit in my chair if I ask you to. Is there something bothering you?” His tone is calm, but there is an undertone of caution that I hate, as if he expects me to leave him here, bleeding alone.

“Why did you hire someone else to clean your office?” I sign, looking down at my white work sneakers.

“I believe I asked you a question first,” he murmurs, lifting my chin with two fingers so I meet his eyes. The motion catches me off guard, and a part of me hides beneath a bed in a room of my heart, suspicious of something too good to be true. “But since you asked,” he continues, “I did not want you cleaning my office anymore.”

“Why?” I sign as he keeps talking out loud, unsettling our usual silence with his voice, goosebumps rolling over my skin.

“Because…” He tilts his head ever so slightly. “It did not seem right anymore.”

“If you have an issue with my work…”

“Ella.”

“I need this job. It’s my only…” I close my fist, bracing. “I need it. It’s really important for me and my family. Don’t…”

“You still have a job, Ella. I gave you my word.”

“But…”

“If you were…” He stops, looking at me like a man seeing a woman for the first time. Silence stretches, and I shake my head, losing the thread of what is happening here. So I take the disinfectant bottle and pat a cotton pad with it, holding it near his face, waiting for his consent. He does not move, eyes on me, then grants me the slightest nod. I am in Tristan Ashford’s office, cleaning a wound on his face. It does not make any sense. This is madness.

What am I doing here?

And most of all, why is he letting me take care of him?

Tristan

If you were mine, you would not even have to work. The words remain stuck somewhere between my throat and my mouth. For the first time in years, I am rendered speechless, facing this young woman whose height barely reaches my chest and who has still managed to cast such a spell on me that the idea of not seeing her tonight was as unbearable as a gunshot to the chest. What am I doing here? Why am I not letting her do her job and go home without talking to me?