A trap Monika will never see coming

CHAPTER 2 - MONA P. – CUSTODIAL STAFF

Erin walked out of the bathroom, her phone in her hand, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. In her other bag was Monika's purse; she'd snatched it up immediately after the fall, before anyone else could. And in her bag, carefully folded, were the "clothes" she'd prepared days ago for exactly this moment. It was a complete custodial uniform, underwear included.

Erin paused outside the bathroom door, taking a deep breath. This next part required perfect execution. But after three years of ****, three years of insults and impossible demands, three years of watching Monika treat everyone around her like disposable servants—

She was ready. She would wait outside the bathroom for around five minutes before re-entering with the uniform.

Meanwhile, inside the stall, Monika had peeled off her soaked bra and panties; the expensive La Perla set was equally ruined from the mud and water. She'd hung them carefully on the hook high on the stall door, away from any drips or splashes. Now she sat perched awkwardly on the closed toilet seat, completely naked, her arms wrapped around herself, shivering.

The air conditioning seemed to have gotten colder, or maybe it was just that she'd never felt so exposed, so ****. Every sound in the hallway outside made her flinch. What if someone came in? What if they saw her like this? She'd never been in such a powerless position; no clothes, no phone, no way to control the situation.

"Erin?" she called out, her voice smaller than usual. "Are you there?"

No response.

Monika waited, listening to the hum of the ventilation system, the distant sound of water running through pipes. Seconds stretched into minutes. Where was Erin? How long did it take to find a simple dress or pantsuit? There had to be something in this building: a corporate office, a boutique downstairs, something.

Her teeth started to chatter.

Then—

BANG BANG BANG!

Three sharp knocks on the stall door, so sudden and loud that Monika let out a small shriek.

"Ms. Pritzker? I've got something for you," Erin's voice sang out.

"Aghhh, Erin!" Monika pressed a hand to her racing heart. "You scared me half to ****! What took you so long?"

"Sorry, Ms. Pritzker. Here." The plastic bag appeared over the top of the stall door.

Monika snatched it quickly, relief flooding through her. Finally. She could get out of here, get to the car, get home, and pretend this entire nightmare had never—

She looked inside the bag.

Her hands froze.

"What..." She pulled out the contents slowly, as if touching something contaminated. A pale blue button-down shirt with the BeautyFirst Cosmetics logo. Matching pants in the same worn fabric. And there, on the breast pocket in smaller text: CUSTODIAL SERVICES.

"Erin." Monika's voice was dangerously quiet. "What the hell is this?"

"Clothes," Erin said simply from outside the stall. "Just like you asked for."

"This is a JANITOR'S—"

But before Monika could finish her sentence, she heard a rustling sound. Through the gap in the stall door, she saw Erin's hands reach up and grab the designer suit jacket and pants that Monika had draped over the door to dry.

"Wait, what are you doing—"

Erin's hand shot through the gap, grabbed the silk blouse from where it hung on the inside hook, and then—horror of horrors—reached higher to snatch the La Perla bra and panties from the hook on the tall door.

"ERIN! STOP!"

But Erin was already stuffing everything into a large plastic garbage bag. Monika heard the wet squelch of muddy fabric being compressed, the rustle of plastic, the delicate silk and lace of her expensive undergarments disappearing into the bag with everything else.

"There we go, all bagged up," Erin said brightly. "Don't want these dripping all over the car."

"Give those BACK!" Monika rattled the stall door, but she couldn't open it without exposing herself completely. She was stark naked now, with nothing to cover herself. "Erin! I need those! ERIN!"

The bathroom door opened. And closed.

Monika stood there, naked, holding a janitor's uniform, in an empty bathroom.

"Erin?" she called out, her voice echoing off the tiles. "ERIN?"

Silence.

Monika looked down at the uniform in her hands, then at her completely bare body. This couldn't be happening. This was insane. Erin had lost her mind. Or maybe Monika was having some kind of breakdown and none of this was real.

She looked at the uniform again.

"I am NOT wearing this," she said to the empty bathroom.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Monika paced in the small stall. Three steps one way, three steps back. Her feet were freezing on the tile floor. Every time she heard a sound from the hallway, she froze, terrified someone would walk in, naked, powerless, reduced to hiding in a bathroom stall.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered. "I'll just... I'll wrap myself in paper towels. Or... or the toilet paper. Something."

She looked at the industrial toilet paper dispenser. Even if she used the entire roll, it wouldn't cover much.

Fifteen minutes.

The cold was becoming unbearable. And she couldn't stay in here forever. Eventually, someone would come in. Eventually, the charity event would end and the building would fill with people.

With shaking hands, she picked up the uniform shirt, then noticed something else at the bottom of the bag. She pulled it out and stared in disbelief.

Just a pair of white cotton full-cut briefs. No bra. Plain, utilitarian, the kind that came in multi-packs from discount stores.

"You have GOT to be kidding me," she muttered.

But what choice did she have? She couldn't wear the uniform with nothing underneath. The thought made her skin crawl.

She stepped into the briefs and pulled them up. Immediately, she knew something was wrong. They were too tight, not in a flattering way, but in all the wrong places. The elastic bit into her hips, the fabric bunched uncomfortably, and the leg openings cut into her thighs. They felt cheap and restrictive, nothing like the silk and lace she was accustomed to.

"Just until I get to the car," she whispered, trying to adjust them into something resembling comfort. "Just until I can call Richard and have him bring me real clothes."

She pulled on the uniform shirt. It was too small, the fabric stretched tight across her chest and shoulders, the buttons straining. The sleeves ended awkwardly above her wrists. And without a bra, the thin, cheap fabric clung to her in a way that made her nipples clearly visible through the material.

The pants were a different problem entirely. When she pulled them on, they were absurdly large, the waistband sitting somewhere around her ribcage and the legs pooling around her muddy stilettos like she was a child playing dress-up.

"Oh God," she moaned, looking down at herself. Her arms instinctively crossed over her chest. "Oh God, oh God..."

She tried holding the pants up with one hand, but they were so big they immediately started sliding down. She couldn't walk like this. She could barely stand. And beneath it all, those awful briefs were still pinching and bunching in the most uncomfortable ways.

Twenty minutes had passed. Where the hell was Erin?

Slowly, carefully, Monika cracked open the stall door and peered out into the bathroom. Empty. She crept to the main door and pressed her ear against it. Voices in the distance, but nothing close.

She opened the door just a crack and stuck her head out into the hallway.

There—about twenty feet away—was Erin, casually scrolling through her phone as if nothing unusual was happening.

"Erin!" Monika hissed. "ERIN!"

Erin looked up, her expression innocent surprise. "Oh! Ms. Pritzker! Is everything okay?"

Monika frantically waved her back. "Get in here! NOW!"

Erin tucked her phone away and walked back to the bathroom with infuriating slowness. When she entered, her eyes traveled over Monika's appearance, lingering for just a moment on the obvious outline beneath the too-tight shirt, and something flickered across her face. Satisfaction? Amusement? It settled back into professional concern so quickly Monika almost thought she'd imagined it.

"The uniform doesn't fit quite right," Erin observed.

"The SHIRT is too SMALL and the PANTS are too BIG!" Monika yanked at the straining fabric with one hand while keeping her other arm protectively across her chest, trying not to think about the uncomfortable briefs underneath or how exposed she felt. "I look like... like..." She couldn't even finish the sentence. The woman in the mirror was unrecognizable: her famous strawberry blonde hair hung in muddy, tangled ropes; her makeup was still smeared in Gothic streaks down her face; and she wore an ill-fitting custodial uniform with five-inch designer stilettos caked in dried mud.

"Here." Erin pulled a canvas belt from her bag—where had that come from?—and handed it to Monika. "This should help with the pants."

Monika snatched it and threaded it through the belt loops with fumbling fingers. She cinched it as tight as it would go, creating an awkward bunch of excess fabric around her waist. The pants stayed up now, at least, but the effect was even more ridiculous.

"I need to fix my face," Monika said, already moving toward the sink. "And my hair. Do you have any makeup? A brush? Anything?"

"I left my bag in the car," Erin said. "I'll go get it."

"NO!" Monika grabbed her arm. "Don't leave me again. Just... just stand guard. Make sure no one comes in."

"Actually, Ms. Pritzker, I should go check on the car. Make sure the driver knows we're ready to leave." Erin gently extracted her arm from Monika's grip. "You work on your hair and makeup. I'll be right back."

"Erin—"

But the door was already closing.

"Damn it!" Monika turned to the mirror and started trying to salvage her appearance. She used damp paper towels to wipe at the mascara streaks, but they just smeared worse. Her hair was a disaster. No amount of finger-combing was going to fix the muddy tangles. She tried to at least smooth it down, but without product or a brush, it just hung there limply.

"This is a nightmare," she muttered, leaning closer to the mirror to assess the damage. "An absolute nightmare. When I get home, I'm firing her. I'm firing her and I'm making sure she never works in this city again. I'm going to—"

The bathroom door burst open with such **** that it banged against the wall.

Monika spun around, her heart leaping into her throat.

A tall Latina woman in her late twenties stood in the doorway, her dark eyes flashing with anger. She wore a Facilities Manager's badge clipped to her belt that read "EMMA RODRIGUEZ - FACILITIES MANAGER." Her black hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail. Her expression suggested she'd dealt with one too many problems today.

"So YOU'RE the one wasting time in the executive bathroom!" she snapped, jabbing a finger at Monika. "I got a report that one of the cleaning crew is in here fidgeting instead of working!"

Monika's mouth fell open. "I'm not— I'm—"

"Where's your ID badge?" Emma strode forward, looking at Monika's chest where a badge should be clipped.

"I'm not—" Monika tried to speak.

"You must be my new cleaner. About time you showed up. You're supposed to check in with me first before starting work. And you definitely shouldn't be in the executive bathroom at all."

"I am NOT one of your cleaning ladies!" Monika finally found her voice, drawing herself up to her full height. "I am Monika Pritzker! My husband is—"

"I don't care if your husband is the President," the manager snapped, voice cold and commanding. "Right now, you're wearing a BeautyFirst Custodial Services uniform, which means you work for the company I'M contracted to manage. That also means you answer to ME. Your ass is mine. I can do whatever I want with you, whenever I want. Right now, you haven't even checked in properly. No ID badge, no official clearance. Let's get you cleaned up and registered before you cause any more trouble."

Before Monika could protest further, Emma grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her toward the sink.

"Wait! What are you—"

Emma didn't stop; she turned on the cold water full blast and **** Monika's face down toward the basin. "Hold still. We're getting that mess off your face, whether you like it or not."

The cold water hit Monika's skin, soaking her face and hair. She sputtered and tried to pull back, but Emma held her firmly in place.

"Stop moving!" Emma snapped, yanking a coarse, dirty rag from her pocket with one hand while gripping the back of Monika's neck with the other. Without hesitation, she began scrubbing Monika's face with efficient, relentless strokes. The mascara, foundation, and remaining makeup came off in dark streaks, swirling down the drain. The rag tore into her skin, leaving it red, raw, and stinging with pain.

"Please—" Monika gasped between the water and the scrubbing. "You don't understand—"

"There." Emma finally released her and stepped back, examining her work, then wiped another greasy rag across Monika's cheeks and forehead for good measure. "At least you look presentable now. Come on."

She grabbed Monika by the wrist again—her grip was iron-strong—and began dragging her out of the bathroom.

"Where are we—let go of me!" Monika stumbled in her muddy stilettos, trying to keep up as Emma pulled her down the hallway.

"Facilities Manager's office. We need to get you your ID badge before you can start work."

Monika's mind was reeling. This couldn't be happening. She tried to pull away, but Emma's grip only tightened. They passed a few office workers who glanced at them curiously—at Monika in her ill-fitting uniform, her wet face and hair, being dragged along like a wayward child.

Emma pushed open a door marked "FACILITIES MANAGEMENT" and pulled Monika inside. The small office was cluttered with schedules, supply orders, and employee files.

"Stand there." Emma pointed to a spot against a plain white wall, then moved to a desk where a computer and small camera were set up. She pulled up something on her screen and nodded. "Okay, here we are. New hire, Mona P., starting today."

"There's been a mistake!" Monika said desperately. "I'm not Mona P! I'm Monika Pritzker! My husband is a—".

Emma wasn't listening. She was already adjusting the camera angle, looking at her monitor. "Stand up straight. Look at the camera."

"Please, just listen to me!" Monika's voice cracked. "I am Monika Pritzker! I'm not supposed to be here! There's been a terrible mistake!"

"Chin up a little," Emma said, still focused on the camera settings. "And stop making that face."

"I'm NOT making a face! I'm trying to tell you—"

CLICK.

The camera flash went off, capturing Monika mid-sentence—her mouth slightly open, her wet face red and blotchy, her eyes wide with desperation and disbelief. Her muddy hair was plastered against her head, and the too-tight uniform shirt strained unflatteringly across her chest.

"Perfect," Emma said, examining the image on her screen with satisfaction.

"That's a terrible photo! I wasn't ready! I'm not even—" Monika rushed forward to look at the screen, but Emma was already sending it to print.

"It's fine. It's just an ID badge, not a glamour shot."

A small printer on the desk whirred to life. Within seconds, Emma was feeding a plastic badge through a laminator.

"Please," Monika tried one more time, her voice shaking. "My name is Monika Pritzker. Not Mona P. There has been a mistake. If you would just—"

"Here." Emma clipped the finished ID badge onto Monika's uniform shirt, right over the CUSTODIAL SERVICES logo, cutting off her protests. "Now you're official."

Monika looked down at the badge in horror. Her photo stared back at her—possibly the worst picture ever taken of her in her entire life. She looked haggard, confused, ****. And printed beneath the unflattering image: MONA P. - CUSTODIAL STAFF.

"This is insane. That's not even my name—" Monika whispered, staring at the badge in disbelief.

"Your hair's still a mess." Emma grabbed an elastic band from her desk drawer, ignoring Monika's plea as she moved behind her. "Can't have you looking like that on the job."

"Wait—" Monika felt Emma's hands gathering her muddy, tangled strawberry blonde hair. "I need you to understand, I'm not—"

"Hold still." Emma yanked the hair back tightly, pulling it into a severe ponytail at the back of Monika's head. There was no gentleness in the motion, no care taken with the tangles.

"Ow! That hurts—stop!" Monika tried to pull away, but Emma's grip was firm, pulling at Monika's scalp.

The elastic band snapped into place with a sharp pull that made Monika's eyes water. Her scalp ached from how tightly Emma had secured it.

"There. Much better." Emma came around to face her, giving her a final once-over with the critical eye of someone inspecting their work. "Okay, Mona. You're assigned to the third floor. Executive conference room and executive bathroom. The conference room has spilled coffee from this morning that needs cleaning, and I want both areas spotless by end of shift."

"My name is not Mona—"

"The supply closet is at the end of the hall on three," Emma continued, ignoring her completely. "Don't let me catch you wasting time again, or you'll be out of here before your first shift is even over. Understood?"

She opened the office door and gestured for Monika to leave.

Monika stood frozen, her hand drifting up to touch the ID badge clipped to her chest. The plastic felt foreign and wrong against her fingers. "Please, if you would just listen—"

"Well?" Emma's tone sharpened with impatience. "Get moving. Third floor. Now. A cleaning cart should be there waiting for you."

Monika opened her mouth to try again, but something in Emma's expression—the complete certainty, the utter dismissal—made the words die in her throat. In a daze, she found herself walking toward the door, her muddy stilettos clicking against the floor.

The door clicked shut behind her with an air of finality, and she found herself alone in the hallway.

She looked down at the badge clipped to her uniform, really seeing it for the first time now that she was alone.

The photo was even worse than she'd initially thought. Her face was bare and blotchy, still damp and red from Emma's rough cleaning. Her expression was one of confused desperation—mouth slightly open, eyes wide with disbelief. Her wet hair plastered against her head. The too-tight shirt strained across her chest in the most unflattering way possible.

And beneath that terrible image: MONA P. - CUSTODIAL STAFF.

This was what people would see when they looked at her ID. This broken, **** woman in a custodian's uniform.

The name seemed to mock her. It wasn't even her name. Just... Mona P.

She touched her face; still damp from the sink, still raw and tender from the coarse rag. Her scalp ached where Emma had yanked her hair back into that punishing ponytail. The too-small shirt strained across her chest with every breath, the buttons threatening to pop. The too-big pants bunched awkwardly around the canvas belt. Those awful discount briefs pinched and bunched beneath it all. And her once-beautiful white Louboutin stilettos—five inches of designer perfection—were now caked in dried mud, completely ruined.

Somewhere in this building, Erin had her real clothes. Her Gucci suit. Her La Perla lingerie. Her phone. Her purse. Her credit cards. Her identity.

And here she stood in a hallway, wearing a custodian's uniform that didn't fit, with an ID badge that said her name was Mona P.

She looked at the badge again, at that awful photo, at a name that wasn't hers.

"This isn't happening," she whispered to the empty hallway.

But the badge felt very real in her trembling hand. The uniform felt very real on her body. The ache in her scalp felt very real. And down the hall, somewhere on the third floor, an executive conference room was waiting for someone named Mona P. to come clean it.

But the badge didn’t lie.

Monika Pritzker—the woman with 2.3 million followers, the perfect hair, the designer heels, the tailored suits—was gone. Every trace of that life, every ounce of control, had been stripped away.

The name printed beneath that humiliating photo glared up at her in bold letters: MONA P. – CUSTODIAL STAFF.