Chapt 18. Do You Really Like Dominic Lancaster That Much?

“Sorry for disturbing your rest.” Isabella Crater bent at a perfect ninety degrees, her expression was calm, her voice was steady.

Her bow was deep, respectful, and utterly devoid of the explosive temper that Tiana had been trying to provoke all night.

Tiana, sprawled on her bed with her phone glowing against her face, curled her lip. The one thing she hated most was Isabella’s perpetual composure. A convicted murderer pretending she was still some sort of dignified princess—what was there to be proud of?

“What’s with that face?” Tiana sneered. “You call that an apology? Look at you, acting like you’re being forced to choke on it. Do you believe I can’t get you fired with one word? If I’m in a bad mood, you won’t even be able to keep this pathetic cleaning job.”

“Tiana, that’s enough!” Amy snapped, her voice sharp with fury.

But Tiana ignored her completely, eyes narrowing on Isabella. “I’m talking to you. Cat got your tongue? Say something, damn it!”

“Sorry for disturbing your rest.” Isabella bent forward again, her voice as flat and even as before. Her short, uneven hair curtained her face, hiding the storm behind her eyes.

Compared to the vicious tricks she had endured in prison, Tiana’s childish taunts were nothing.

Tiana, however, wanted a reaction. She wanted Isabella to lash out, to cry, to scream—anything. But Isabella remained silent, calm, infuriatingly detached.

With a huff, Tiana flopped back on her bed, returning to her phone, her satisfaction sour.

Isabella finally lay down, clutching her medicine. The pills dulled the fire gnawing at her stomach, but the pain still twisted her insides. She tossed and turned until the second half of the night before exhaustion dragged her into a shallow sleep.

By morning, her face was ghostly pale.

Amy offered to report her sick and request leave, but Isabella shook her head. Dominic Lancaster’s orders were like chains—her supervisor would never approve time off.

So she swallowed another dose of medicine, forced her body to move, and dragged herself to sign in.

“You’re late!” The supervisor’s finger stabbed toward her face, his spit nearly flying onto her cheeks. “Exactly one minute late! Say goodbye to your salary for the entire month!”

“I’m sorry,” Isabella murmured, head bowed. “I wasn’t feeling well this morning. It won’t happen again.”

Her oversized uniform hung loosely from her frame, making her appear fragile, almost petite. In reality, she was tall—five-foot-seven—but prison had stripped her flesh from her bones. What remained was an unhealthy thinness, the kind that turned heads not from beauty but from concern.

Other janitors trickled in, a few minutes late themselves. They watched the scene with bored indifference, signing in casually. To them, Isabella being singled out had already become routine.

“Next time?” the supervisor barked, eyes bulging. “You think there will be a next time? In all my years of work, I’ve never seen an employee with such a rotten attitude!”

Isabella lowered her head further. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? Sorry doesn’t cut it. If apologies solved everything, why would we need police?” His spit actually hit her cheek this time. “I don’t care who you used to be. Right now, you’re a janitor. That means you follow my orders.”

Isabella swiped her cheek with her sleeve, her voice calm. “Yes.”

“You were one minute late, so you’ll clean an extra floor today. Fourth and fifth, all yours. I’ll be checking.”

The Dream Club was massive. Each floor had sixteen private rooms, long corridors, restrooms, and walls that demanded daily scrubbing. Normally, two workers shared the burden. Isabella had been assigned an entire floor alone these past few days—and now he had added another.

“What’s wrong? Not satisfied?” the supervisor goaded, raising his voice.

Isabella’s fists clenched inside her sleeves. But when she spoke, her voice was level, without tremor. “No.”

“No is right! And even if you were, it wouldn’t matter!” He checked his watch, then waved dismissively. “Well? Don’t just stand there like a lump. Go fetch your tools. Or should I do it for you?”

A couple of employees passing by snickered openly at her humiliation.

Isabella turned silently, collected her cleaning cart, and wheeled it upstairs.

“Isabella.” Two older janitors approached hesitantly. One frowned. “The fifth floor too? That’s yours now?”

Isabella nodded.

“Both floors? Alone?” the other gasped.

“Mm.” Isabella forced a small smile. “Don’t worry. You two rest. I’ll handle it.”

They exchanged a look heavy with pity. One sighed. “Child, you’ll work yourself to death. Why not quit? With your looks, you could find a better job anywhere. Why stay here, letting them torment you?”

Isabella shook her head. If leaving were possible, I would’ve done it already.

The women lingered a moment longer before shuffling away, muttering under their breaths.

Isabella resumed mopping. The chemicals stung her nose, the motion relentless, mechanical. Then, suddenly, her mop struck against an immovable obstacle.

A pair of polished leather shoes.

“Excuse me,” she said evenly. “Could you lift your foot? The floor’s wet.”

The shoes didn’t move.

Her gaze traveled upward—dark trousers, a crisp suit, and then amber eyes, stormy with restrained fury.

Adrian Harrington.

Her grip on the mop tightened. “Welcome, sir. Please be careful, the floor is slippery.” She sidestepped politely, giving him space, her eyes never lingering.

But Adrian didn’t budge. His stare drilled into her, a silent demand, his anger simmering just beneath the surface.

Isabella ignored him, maneuvering her mop around his shoes as though he were no different from any other obstacle. Her back remained straight, her motions calm, even as the weight of his gaze pressed heavy against her spine.

Adrian’s hands curled into fists. His voice, when it came, was low, shaking with something between rage and anguish.

“Isabella Crater—do you really like Dominic Lancaster that much?”