At 2:47 in the morning, Imani Banks stopped being a woman and became a body.
Not forever. Not in any tragic, poetic way. Just for five stolen minutes.
Her knees had gone past pain hours ago. Her hands were raw from bleach. The muscles in her back felt like twisted rope. She had been working since before sunrise—first at the diner, then in a downtown office building, then on the night crew for Morrison Cleaning Services. By the time she reached the executive suite on the sixty-eighth floor of the Castellano Building, she was so tired that even the word tired felt too small.
The office was all glass, shadow, and power. Chicago shimmered outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city glowing like it belonged to people who never had to count bus fare. In the center of the room sat a massive desk of dark wood, museum-worthy art on the walls, and behind that desk, the most beautiful chair Imani had ever seen.
Italian leather. Deep black. Soft enough to look sinful.
She did not know it cost more than most people’s cars.
She only knew that her legs were shaking and her vision kept blurring at the edges.
“Just five minutes,” she whispered to herself.
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