At my grandson’s birthday, my DIL called security: “Get this tacky old woman out of here.” She had no idea who owned the company where she and her whole family worked. The next day, I demoted them all to bathroom cleaners...

The basement of Wellington Tower smelled like boiler grease, steam pipes, and the heavy, sweet scent of industrial pine cleaner.

It was a world Marcus Martinez had never seen. In his eight years as an executive, the lower levels had simply been the place where the elevator stopped if someone hit the wrong button—a dark, concrete labyrinth to be avoided at all costs.

Now, he stood in a ten-by-ten locker room lit by a flickering fluorescent tube that buzzed like a hornet.

“Move your feet, Martinez,” a voice barked behind him.

Marcus turned around. Hector Ramos, a barrel-chested man of fifty-five with graying hair and arms like tree trunks, tossed a yellow plastic mop bucket on wheels toward him. It clattered loudly against the concrete floor.

“I’m Hector,” the man said, wiping his hands on a blue rag. “I’ve run facilities in this building for twenty-two years. I don't care that you used to wear a three-thousand-dollar suit on thirty-four. Down here, you’re junior custodial crew. You don't know how to mix the stripper, you don't know how to run the buffer, and judging by the way you’re holding that mop handle, you’ve never cleaned a spill in your entire miserable life.”

Marcus’s jaw tightened. “Mr. Ramos, this is a temporary situation. My attorneys are already reviewing the corporate restructuring directive—”

Hector stepped forward until his face was six inches from Marcus’s nose. He smelled of cheap black coffee and menthol cigarettes.

“Listen to me, pretty boy,” Hector growled. “Every minute you spend crying about your lawyer is a minute you aren't stripping the mud off the concourse tiles. It’s raining outside. Three thousand people walked through the lobby this morning with wet boots. That lobby floor is limestone. If the grit sits on that limestone for more than two hours, it scratches the sealant. If it scratches the sealant, I have to spend my Saturday buffing it out. Move!”

Marcus flinched. He had never been spoken to like this in his adult life. In his previous office, if an assistant forgot his almond milk, he would write a stern memo to HR. Now, he was looking at a man who could snap his arm like a dried twig.

“What... what do I do first?” Marcus stammered.

Hector shoved a heavy plastic jug into his chest. “Fill the bucket with hot water from the slop sink. Two capfuls of degreaser. Not three, not one. Two. Then take the freight elevator to the concourse. Start at the north revolving doors. If I see a single streak on that stone when I come up at two o’clock, you’re staying until midnight.”

Thirty floors above him, Indigo was standing in the executive women’s restroom on the thirty-ninth floor, staring at her hands.

She was wearing bright yellow rubber gloves that went up to her elbows. Over her silk blouse—she had refused to wear the gray custodial shirt, claiming it gave her hives—she wore a blue canvas apron with three deep pockets.

In her pockets were a spray bottle of glass cleaner, a scrub brush with stiff white bristles, and three rolls of commercial-grade paper towels.

The door swung open.

A woman walked in—a senior portfolio analyst named Brenda whom Indigo had snubbed at the corporate Christmas party four months earlier, laughing behind her back about Brenda’s off-the-rack Macy’s dress.

Brenda stopped dead in her tracks, her hand frozen on the strap of her leather purse.

Indigo’s face burned with a heat so intense she thought her skin might peel off. She instinctively turned her back, pretending to wipe down the marble counter of the sink.

“Indigo?” Brenda’s voice was filled with a mixture of disbelief and barely suppressed delight. “Is that... is that you?”

Indigo didn't turn around. “I’m conducting an operational audit of facilities management standards for the executive floors,” she said, her voice shaking with forced formality.

Brenda took a step closer, looking at the yellow gloves, the scrub brush, and the spray bottle.

“An audit?” Brenda smiled—a slow, razor-sharp corporate smile. “With a toilet wand? Oh, sweetie. I heard the morning rumors, but I didn't think... wow. They really put you on waste duty, didn't they?”

“Get out,” Indigo hissed, spinning around, her eyes wild. “Get out before I have you reported for harassment!”

Brenda didn't flinch. She walked casually to the middle stall, pushed the door open with the tip of her designer pump, and turned back to Indigo.

“Someone spilled coffee all over the tile in stall three about twenty minutes ago,” Brenda said smoothly, her eyes gleaming with malice. “It’s starting to get sticky. You might want to get down on your knees and hit it with that scrub brush before David Chen comes up for the two o’clock regional briefing. Wouldn't want your *audit* to look sloppy, would you?”

Brenda walked out, letting the heavy door slam shut behind her.

Indigo stood alone in the cold, mirrored room. The scent of bleached porcelain and damp paper towels filled her nostrils. She looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror—the ivory designer blouse splattered with drops of dirty water, her hair coming loose from its pins, the grotesque yellow rubber gloves making her arms look like industrial machinery.