Chapt 20. You Are the One Who Made the Mistake

Isabella Crater raised her head. “Don’t worry. Even if I die, I won’t invite either of you to my funeral. I never want to see you again in this lifetime.”

Adrian Harrington’s grip on the imported ointment tube tightened. His eyes darkened, a shadow of anger and disbelief passing through them. “Isabella, the one who made the mistake was you, not Sophia or me.”

It was a strange reversal. Even if they never met again, it should have been that Adrian and Sophia didn’t want to see her—not that she didn’t want to see them.

Isabella’s lips twitched into a faint and almost scornful smile. “Me being here is the mistake. People like you, who never admit your own faults… kneel for two hours, two days, or even two years—that’s just karma catching up.”

Without another word, Adrian turned and strode toward the elevator, tossing the tube of ointment into the trash with a dull thud. The sound echoed through the corridor, heavy and oppressive, pressing down on the already tense air.

The supervisor’s face reddened and ready to punish her further, when a package room door opened with a sudden clatter. A head popped out. “Cleaner! Over here! Someone’s thrown up!”

“Yes, coming,” Isabella replied, picking up her cleaning tools and entering the room ahead.

Inside, the air was filled with smoke, alcohol, and the sharp, lingering scent of perfume, mixed with the acrid stench of vomit. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe.

“Excuse me,” she said softly, stepping forward with her rag to clean the large patches of vomit covering the table and sofa.

Her presence drew a few glances. Crisp, melodic laughter pierced the smoke, and several men who were chatting with women turned their attention to her.

“I thought it was some cleaning lady—turns out it’s a pretty young girl!”

“Not bad looking… but let’s see what’s underneath. If it’s worth it, you could work for me from now on.”

“Are you blind? That body’s perfect! Come with me, you’ll earn way more than cleaning here!”

The men’s lewd remarks were sharp, their intentions unmistakable.

Isabella ignored them completely. Her focus remained on the task: wiping up the vomit. The sticky, nauseating residue clung to her rag and hands, and the acidic stench twisted her stomach. She bit her lip, forcing herself to continue.

“My shoe got dirty too, honey. Clean it for me,” one man demanded, eyes roving her figure like a predator’s.

She took a small step back, holding the rag tighter. “The rag is dirty. I’ll get a clean one,” she said, voice steady but strained, hoping to end the interaction.

“Don’t be such a hassle,” he countered, smirking. “I don’t mind a little dirt for you.”

Her gaze stayed downward, unwavering. She placed both hands on the soiled rag, feeling it smear across her shoes and uniform. The men recoiled slightly, disgusted, though their leering eyes remained fixed.

Suddenly, one of the men grabbed her by the hair, yanking her toward him. She stumbled, landing on her knees with a thud.

“Pthunk!”

The sound barely masked the laughter that erupted from the others. Whistles and jeers filled the room. Isabella remained kneeling, a puppet under their mockery, humiliated to her core.

Her hands pressed the rag flat against the mess, short, uneven strands of hair falling over eyes that were a mixture of endurance and hidden rage. Her teeth clenched, body trembling.

Her hand grazed the edge of a nearby ashtray, heavy enough to smash a man’s skull—but she hesitated. One movement and Dominic Lancaster would know.

The man, grinning with malice, tossed a stack of bills on the table. “Little girl,” he said lecherously, “help me out. One hundred bucks. How about it?”

Isabella forced herself to look at the man, his face caked in foundation, stomach twisting in revolt. She swallowed hard, clenching her jaw to keep the bile down.

The others cheered and hooted.

“C’mon, pretty girl! This pays way better than cleaning toilets!”

“Look at her! This is just a cleaner—wiping vomit all day! At least make her shower before anything else!”

Isabella’s knuckles whitened on the rag. Every moment, every jeer, every filthy suggestion weighed like chains on her soul. She was a prisoner of her choices, of the past she could never erase, and of the twisted world surrounding her—yet still, she refused to let them see her break.

The rag in her hands was soaked, her knees stung from kneeling on the wet floor, and yet her eyes, hidden beneath her hair, burned with the fire of unspoken defiance.

Even in this filth, even under the sight of these men, Isabella Crater would not bow to fear. She would endure. She would survive. And someday, the debts owed to her soul would be paid—one way or another.