Chapter 2 - The Ghost in the GlassBy 6:00 a.m. the next morning, the exhaustion of the previous night had settled deep into my bones like wet cement. My alarm went off with a shrill, mocking chirp that made me want to throw my phone across the tiny, cluttered bedroom of our Bronx apartment.
I dragged myself out of bed, checked my mother’s blood sugar levels—she was stable, thank God—and brewed a pot of cheap instant coffee.
“You look like you wrestled a bear, Vic,” my mother said softly from the kitchen table, wrapping her floral robe tighter around her frail shoulders.
“Just a billionaire,” I muttered, kissing the top of her head.
Forty minutes later, I was back in Midtown, standing in the towering, echoing lobby of Vance Tower. The morning sun poured through sixty-foot panes of pristine glass, casting brilliant geometric shadows across the polished white marble floor.
It was my job to keep that glass invisible.
Armed with a spray bottle of industrial cleaner and a microfiber cloth, I began my systematic sweep of the ground floor. Tourists and junior analysts rushed past, staring into their phones, entirely unaware of the woman wiping the smudge marks off the revolving doors.
Around 9:30 a.m., the main bank of private elevators chimed with a soft, melodic tone.
The crowd parted instantly.
Julian Vance stepped out, flanked by two nervous-looking vice presidents and a legal advisor. He was wearing a charcoal-gray pinstripe suit today, his dark hair combed back with military precision. He looked every bit the ruthless titan of industry—cold, focused, untouchable.
I ducked behind a massive structural marble pillar, hoping to fade into the background. I had no desire for a round two.
As he walked past, his stride suddenly faltered.
He didn't stop, and he didn't look directly at me, but his head turned a fraction of an inch. His sharp gaze swept across the lobby, zeroing in on the pillar where I stood clutching my spray bottle like a shield.
A subtle, knowing flicker crossed his face—gone as quickly as it appeared—before he strode briskly toward the glass doors leading to the executive boardrooms.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I’d been holding. Close one, I thought.
“Hey! You there! Window washer!”
I froze. A sharp, grating voice cut through the ambient hum of the lobby.
It was Mr. Henderson, the floor supervisor—a miserable little man with a Napoleon complex who treated the cleaning crew like stray dogs. He trotted over, his face red with bureaucratic panic.
“What are you doing hiding behind a pillar? The executive washroom on the forty-second floor is overflowing, and the head of operations is throwing a fit. Get up there right now. And fix your uniform; you look sloppy.”
I bit my tongue so hard I tasted copper. “Yes, Mr. Henderson.”
Five minutes later, I was standing in the gleaming, gold-trimmed private bathroom of the forty-second floor. The air smelled of expensive sandalwood and bleach. I went to work with a plunger and a heavy heart, scrubbing away the indignities of men who made millions while I counted pennies.
As I stood up, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my forearm, the heavy oak door of the executive office next door opened.
Voices leaked into the quiet hallway.
“...security audit is complete, Mr. Vance,” an unfamiliar voice said. “The nanny has been fired, and the agency has been blacklisted. It won't happen again.”
“It shouldn't have happened at all, David,” Julian’s voice replied, cold and razor-sharp. “If my daughters had been hurt because your team was cutting corners on perimeter surveillance, you wouldn't be standing in this office right now.”
“Understood, sir. What about... the woman? The one who found them?”
Silence stretched for a long, heavy second.
“Leave her alone,” Julian said quietly. “I’ll handle that.”
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My stomach tightened. Handle that? What was that supposed to mean? Was he going to pay me off to sign a non-disclosure agreement? Was he going to have corporate security intimidate me into silence so the tabloids didn't pick up the story of the billionaire’s missing heirs?
I grabbed my bucket and slipped out the service stairs before anyone could catch me lurking. I had survived twenty-eight years in this city by staying invisible. I wasn't about to let a billionaire put a target on my back.
