the fourth day

Millicent’s POV

Day four. Same bench, same dress, same security guards pretending they aren’t watching me through the lobby windows.

But today I have a plan.

The first three days I was just reacting, showing up, demanding to be seen, getting thrown out, and it felt good in the moment, righteous even, but it didn’t change anything. Damon Hale is still in his tower. My studio is still set for demolition. And I’m still sitting here like a crazy person while my mother tries not to drink herself unconscious before noon.

Today is different. Today I’m not demanding anything. I’m watching, learning, looking for cracks.

The lobby has a pattern. I’ve been studying it for hours, tracking the flow of people the way I’d track light through a lens. The morning rush hits around eight, suits streaming through the revolving doors, most of them heading for the main elevator bank on the left, the one that serves floors two through forty. I counted the buttons through the glass.

But there’s another elevator on the right, past the security desk, half hidden behind a plant. That one needs a keycard. I’ve only seen a handful of people use it, and they’re nothing like the others, older, better dressed, moving with the confidence of people who don’t ask permission.

That elevator goes to the top.

To Damon Hale.

“You’re back.”

I look up. A young man stands beside the bench, wearing a janitor’s uniform and holding a trash picker, about my age with kind eyes and a nervous smile.

“Every day until someone listens to me.”

“They won’t,” he says quietly, glancing toward the lobby. “Listen, I mean. The people who matter don’t come down here. They’ve got their own entrance, their own elevator. Half of them probably don’t even know this lobby exists.”

“I figured.” I study him. “What’s your name?”

“Tommy.”

“Tommy, can I ask you something?” I keep my voice casual. “That elevator over there, the one with the keycard, where does it go?”

He follows my gaze, then quickly looks away. “I shouldn’t..”

“I’m not asking you to do anything illegal. I just want to know.”

He hesitates, chewing his lip, then lowers his voice. “Executive floors. Forty-one through fifty-two. Only senior staff and C-suite.” He pauses. “Hale’s office is on fifty-two.”

“Is there any other way up?”

“There’s a service elevator in the back, but it’s always watched. Stairwells are locked from the inside.” He shifts his weight. “The only way onto those floors is through security or..”

“Or what?”

He exhales. “I’ve said too much already.” He starts to walk away, then stops. “There’s a fire drill scheduled for this afternoon. Two o’clock. Whole building has to evacuate.” He doesn’t look at me. “Some doors unlock automatically during evacuations. Safety rules.”

Then he’s gone.

I check my phone.

1:47.

The next thirteen minutes crawl. I sit with my hands folded in my lap, my heart slamming against my ribs, every thought chasing the next. This is insane. I could get arrested. I could make everything worse. I could..

The alarm starts screaming.

People pour out of the building, annoyed and confused, flooding the sidewalk in a river of expensive suits and designer handbags. Security shouts instructions, trying to keep order, their attention stretched across too many moving bodies.

I stand and walk calmly toward the entrance.

No one stops me. No one even looks twice. I’m just another body moving against the flow, slipping through the revolving door as everyone else pushes out. Inside, the lobby is chaos, people grabbing laptops and purses, arguing about deadlines, complaining about the interruption to their very important days.

The service elevator is in the back, through a door marked Employees Only, and it’s propped open just like Tommy said.

I step inside and press forty.

The ride feels endless. My reflection stares back at me from the polished metal, a woman in a black dress with tired eyes and a desperate plan. I try to imagine what I’ll say if I actually make it. Hi, I broke into your building, please don’t destroy my life.

The doors open.

Gray carpet. White walls. Offices with nameplates I don’t recognize.

Not the top floor, but closer than I’ve ever been.

I step out, scanning for stairs, another elevator, anything that goes up.

“Hey!”

I spin as a security guard jogs toward me, one hand on his radio.

“Ma’am, this floor is restricted. How did you—”

I run.

It’s stupid, I know it’s stupid, but my feet move anyway, heels striking the carpet, breath burning as I turn corners and hope for anything.

A door.

I shove it open and almost laugh.

Stairs.

Unlocked, just like Tommy said.

I take them two at a time, calves screaming, lungs on fire, numbers blurring past as I climb. Forty-one. Forty-two. Forty-three. Voices echo below me, footsteps pounding up the concrete.

Forty-seven. Forty-eight. Forty-nine.

A hand clamps around my arm.

I scream, but it cuts off as another guard spins me around and pins me to the wall, his partner right behind him, both of them breathing hard.

“We’ve got her,” one says into his radio. “Stairwell B, forty-ninth floor.”

“Wait,” I gasp. “Please. I just need to talk to someone.”

The radio crackles. A voice comes through, flat and cold.

“Bring her to fifty-two.”

Both guards freeze.

“Sir?” one asks.

“You heard me. My office.”

They don’t cuff me. They don’t drag me. They just walk me upward, one in front and one behind, up the last three flights and through a door that opens onto another world.

The executive floor is nothing like the lobby, darker and quieter, all dark wood and leather and art that probably costs more than my mother’s house. The carpet is so thick my heels sink into it.

They stop in front of a large door. One of them knocks.

“Come in.”

And just like that, I’m standing in Damon Hale’s office.