The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of the penthouse bathroom, casting a golden hue on the cold marble floor.
I was just a cleaner, pushing my cart down the hallway, as I had done countless times before.
But today, something felt different.
The heavy door to the master suite was ajar, a crack wide enough to invite curiosity.
I hesitated, knowing the rules of this place: discretion above all else.
Yet, something pulled me forward.
I nudged the door open, and there she was—his wife, crumpled on the floor, her hand weakly pressed against her stomach, blood seeping through her fingers.
“…”
The scene was surreal, a collision between opulence and despair.
Her eyes met mine, a silent plea that echoed louder than any scream.
