Later, Keisha found her in the hospital chapel, bent over and shaking with the kind of crying that empties a person out.
Keisha did what she had always done best—she let Imani break, then put her back together with honesty instead of pity.
“You cannot lose your mind right now,” Keisha said, shoving bad hospital coffee into her hands. “You need money, so we get creative.”
“I’m already working three jobs.”
“Then you work harder.”
Imani laughed bitterly through tears. “How? Clone myself?”
Keisha leaned back in the pew and thought fast. “My cousin Shanice told me about this cleaning company. Morrison Services. They do all these luxury towers downtown. Pay is better. Overtime too.”
“How much better?”
“Thirty an hour for the high-end assignments.”
That number hit Imani like a slap.
Thirty dollars an hour wasn’t salvation. But it was movement. It was maybe. It was enough to make desperation sit up straighter.
“I’ll take it,” she said.
Keisha squeezed her hand. “You would crawl across broken glass for your mama.”
“Yes,” Imani said without hesitation. “I would.”
That was not drama. It was fact.
Three weeks later, she was sitting in Morrison Cleaning Services’ miserable orientation room, listening to Mr. Morrison drone through a presentation about “premium discretion” and “high-value clientele.”
Then Damon Castellano’s tower appeared on the screen.
The Castellano Building.
Sixty-eight floors of steel, glass, money, and power.
Mr. Morrison’s tone changed when he got to the top floors.
“Floors sixty through sixty-eight are special. That is Damon Castellano’s territory. His offices. His private executive suite. His personal meeting rooms.”
The room went quiet.
“Mr. Castellano is exacting,” Morrison continued. “You miss a spot, you’re fired. You move one item on his desk, you’re fired. You breathe wrong, you’re probably fired.”
A few people laughed. Morrison did not.
He talked about Damon the way people talk about weather systems that kill people.
Imani only heard one thing clearly.
Thirty dollars an hour. Overtime. Bonus if you survived.
When Morrison said nobody wanted that assignment unless something desperate was driving them, Imani raised her hand.
“I’ll take it when you’re ready.”
He studied her. “Medical bills?”
She nodded.
“Then you may last longer than the others,” he said.
She did not realize at the time how true that would be.
Imani survived the regular rotation for thirteen brutal days before Morrison called her into his office.
“You’re fast,” he said. “No complaints. No missed shifts. Three people just quit the Castellano floors. I need someone desperate enough to stay.”
“My mother has stage four cancer,” Imani replied. “Desperate isn’t the word.”
So he gave her the assignment.
Midnight to eight a.m. on the top floors.
She would finish her diner shift at eleven, catch the bus, clean until morning, sleep in pieces where she could, then do it all again.
And she took it without blinking.
The first night on Damon Castellano’s floors taught her something important.
There are spaces so expensive they stop feeling human.
Everything on those upper floors was already immaculate. The conference tables shone. The glass gleamed. The rugs looked untouched by actual feet. Books were arranged by color and height. Pens were aligned. Coffee cups sat in exact formation, handles turned outward with military precision.
It was not just clean.
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