Of course not

CHAPTER 4 - AUTHORIZATION DENIED

Monika stumbled down the hallway, her breath still coming in short gasps. Her mind felt fractured, scattered. All she could hear was Sophie's voice echoing in her head.

The executive bathroom down the hall needs cleaning. Third door on the left. You should take care of that right away.

She reached the cleaning cart and shoved the trash bag into the bin with trembling hands. The plastic crinkled loudly in the quiet hallway.

Third door. Clean the bathroom. Third door.

Her hands gripped the cart's handle, and she began wheeling it down the carpeted hallway. The wheels rolled softly, the sound almost hypnotic. She wasn't thinking about escape anymore. Wasn't thinking about finding a phone or calling Richard or getting out of this building.

All she could think about was Sophie's command. The executive bathroom. Third door on the left.

She had to clean it. Right away.

The thought consumed her entirely as she pushed the cart forward, her muddy stilettos sinking into the plush carpet with each automatic step.

Third door. There it was.

She pushed the cart through the doorway and into the executive bathroom.

And froze.

The space was enormous; marble countertops, gleaming fixtures, soft recessed lighting that cast everything in a warm, flattering glow. A wall of mirrors stretched across one entire side, perfectly positioned, perfectly lit.

And there, reflected back at her in merciless clarity, was herself.

Monika stared.

The woman in the mirror looked nothing like her. Nothing like the Monika Pritzker who'd stepped out of a Mercedes just hours ago. This woman had a bare, blotchy face; still red and raw from Emma's rough cleaning. No foundation to smooth her skin. No contouring to sharpen her cheekbones. No highlight to make her glow. Just... plain skin. Common skin.

Her strawberry blonde hair, usually her pride, was yanked back into a severe ponytail so tight it pulled at her temples. Muddy strands had dried in awkward clumps around her face.

And her posture. Monika's breath hitched. She was hunched. Shoulders curved inward. Defeated.

You look much older. Your face is sort of... common. Your features are coarser. Plus you have that hunched, defeated posture.

The words sliced through her again, sharper this time because now she could see it. Sophie was right. Standing here in this ill-fitting uniform: the too-tight shirt straining across her chest, the too-big pants bunched around her waist. She looked exactly like what the badge on her chest said she was.

Mona P. Custodial Staff.

Ordinary.

She leaned closer to the mirror, searching for something…anything… just a hint of the woman she'd been this morning. The woman who commanded rooms. The woman whose opinion mattered. The woman who—

The bathroom door swung open with a sudden whoosh.

Monika's heart lurched into her throat. Panic flooded her system, white-hot and immediate.

Without thinking, she grabbed a cleaning rag from the cart and spun toward the nearest counter, her hand moving in frantic circular motions across the already-spotless marble. Her head ducked down automatically, her shoulders hunching further, her entire body language screaming don't look at me, don't see me, I'm nobody, I'm nothing—

What was happening to her?

She was Monika Pritzker. She didn't hide. She didn't cower. She didn't—

But her hands kept moving, kept scrubbing, kept pretending.

Footsteps clicked across the tile floor. Expensive heels. Confident.

Monika kept her eyes fixed on the counter, on the rag in her hand, on anything but the person who'd just entered.

From the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of movement. A woman, who was probably in her late twenties dressed in a designer suit, dark hair in a sleek bob, had stopped near the sinks. And she was looking at Monika.

Looking at her with a smirk.

Monika's stomach twisted. Did she know? Did this woman recognize her?

She didn't recognize the woman. Had they met before? Maybe at a gala? An event? One of hundreds who'd once smiled at her from across a banquet hall.

The woman pulled out her phone, still smirking, and began scrolling through it while standing there. She wasn't even using the bathroom. Just... standing there. Watching Monika scrub a counter that didn't need cleaning.

Monika kept her head down, her face angled away, her movements becoming more ****, more frantic. The rag squeaked against the marble.

The woman let out a soft laugh, barely audible, but Monika heard it. Felt it like a blade between her ribs.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the woman tucked her phone away and walked toward the door. Her heels clicked against the tile with deliberate slowness.

The door swung shut.

Monika stood frozen for a long moment, the rag still clutched in her white-knuckled grip. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Her hands were shaking.

Then, slowly, she began to pace.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Her muddy stilettos clicking softly against the pristine tile floor.

She needed to clean the bathroom. Make sure it was spotless. Emma would be back to inspect. Sophie had told her to clean it right away. She needed to—

Monika stopped abruptly.

Wait.

What was she doing?

She stared down at the cleaning rag in her hand, then at the cart full of supplies, then at her reflection in the mirror—hunched posture, custodial uniform, that awful ID badge.

What the hell was she doing?

She'd been so terrified of Sophie seeing her, so consumed by the command to clean the bathroom, that she'd actually... she'd actually started acting like a cleaning lady. Without even thinking about it. Without questioning it.

She'd pushed the cart here. She'd grabbed the rag. She'd scrubbed the counter when that woman walked in—not because she was pretending, but because some part of her brain had actually believed that's what she was supposed to do. Somewhere between fear and instinct, she'd slipped into the role the uniform demanded.

Horror washed over her. Mirrors don't lie, but they also don't care. They simply reflected back what was left of her.

She wasn't supposed to be cleaning bathrooms. She was supposed to be finding a phone. Getting help. Calling Richard. Escaping this nightmare.

But instead, she'd wheeled a cleaning cart to the executive bathroom like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she really was Mona P., custodial staff, following orders.

Monika's hands started shaking harder. The rag dropped from her fingers and landed on the counter with a soft thud.

She needed to get out of here. Now. Before she lost herself completely.

A phone. She needed to find a phone.

Monika's hands were still trembling as she stared at her reflection one last time. No. She couldn't stay here. She had to find a phone. Now.

She turned away from the mirror and walked out of the executive bathroom, leaving the cleaning cart behind. Her muddy stilettos clicked urgently against the tile, then muffled as she stepped back onto the carpeted hallway.

The conference room. Emma had mentioned it. There had to be a phone in there.

Monika hurried down the hall, her eyes scanning the brass nameplates on each door until she found it: EXECUTIVE CONFERENCE ROOM. The heavy mahogany doors gleamed under the recessed lighting.

She grabbed the handle and pushed. The door swung open easily, revealing an enormous room dominated by a long table surrounded by leather chairs. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the parking lot and the charity event still in progress outside. And there, on a credenza against the wall—

A phone.

Relief flooded through her so powerfully she nearly stumbled. Finally. Finally!

Monika rushed to it, her hands shaking as she lifted the receiver. She pressed it to her ear.

Nothing.

No dial tone. No sound at all.

"No, no, no..." She pressed the buttons frantically. Tried the hook switch. Nothing. The phone was dead, or disconnected, or—

She slammed it down, her breath coming in short gasps.

There had to be another phone. The offices. The executives' offices down the hall.

Monika rushed back into the hallway, her heels clicking rapidly against the carpet. She tried the first office door. Locked. The second. Locked. The third, fourth, fifth—all locked.

"Damn it!" Her voice cracked. She pressed her forehead against one of the doors, her chest heaving. This couldn't be happening. There had to be a way out. There had to be—

Her ID badge.

Monika's hand flew to her chest, touching the plastic card clipped to her uniform. Employee badges opened doors, didn't they? She'd seen people tap them against the readers all the time.

She moved to the nearest door, a corner office with a nameplate that read "DAVID Charles, VP OF OPERATIONS." There was a small black reader mounted beside the door handle.

With trembling fingers, Monika unclipped her badge and held it against the reader.

Nothing.

She tried again, pressing it more firmly.

Still nothing.

Then—BEEP. A green light flashed.

The lock clicked open with a mechanical buzz.

"Yes!" Monika pushed the door open and slipped inside, closing it quickly behind her.

The office was pristine: dark wood desk, expensive chairs, abstract art on the walls. And there, on the desk—a phone. A real, working office phone with multiple lines.

Monika lunged for it, grabbed the receiver, and pressed it to her ear.

A dial tone. Thank God, a dial tone.

Her fingers fumbled as she dialed Richard's cell number, the digits she'd memorized years ago. She pressed the last number and waited.

Nothing. The line clicked, then went silent.

She tried again. Same result.

What was wrong? Why wasn't it—

Then she saw the small instruction card taped to the base of the phone: "For external calls, dial 9 followed by the phone number."

Monika's hands shook as she redialed. Nine, then Richard's number.

The line clicked. Then a robotic voice: "Please enter your authorization code."

"What?" Monika stared at the phone. "No, no, no—"

"Please enter your authorization code," the voice repeated.

Monika pressed random numbers, hoping, praying—

"Invalid code. Please try again."

She tried different combinations. Her birthday. Richard's birthday. Anything.

"Invalid code. Call terminated."

The line went dead.

"NO!" Monika slammed the phone down so hard it rattled on the desk. Her eyes were burning. She tried to dial again, tried 911, tried the operator—

"Please enter your authorization code."

Every outside line was locked. Password protected. She couldn't call anyone.

Monika sank into the leather chair behind the desk, her head in her hands. This was impossible. She was trapped. Actually trapped in this building, in this uniform, with no way to—

BUZZ.

The door lock.

Monika's head snapped up, terror flooding through her.

The door swung open and a man in his fifties strode in, expensive suit, salt-and-pepper hair, phone pressed to his ear. He was mid-conversation, not looking up.

"—yes, I'll have those numbers for you by Monday. No, I'm just stopping by the office to grab some files before heading back to the event—"

Then he saw her.

His expression shifted from distracted to confused to furious in the span of a heartbeat.

"I'll call you back," he snapped into his phone, ending the call. His eyes locked on Monika with withering intensity.

Monika shot out of his chair, her heart hammering. The trash can. There was a small trash can beside the desk. She grabbed it, keeping her head down, her face angled away.

"What the hell are you doing in my office?" His voice was low and dangerous.

Monika didn't respond. She moved toward the larger trash bin in the corner, fumbling with the smaller can, her hands shaking so badly she nearly dropped it.

"I ASKED YOU A QUESTION!" The man's voice exploded through the room. "What are you doing in here?"

"I-I'm sorry, sir, I was just—the trash—" Monika kept her face turned away, her voice barely above a whisper.

"The trash?" He stepped closer, his face reddening. "That's your excuse? Are you DEAF? I put an explicit notice with Facilities this morning. NO ONE, and I mean NO ONE, enters my office today. I don't care if the building is on fire. I have confidential documents on that desk!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't know—"

"You didn't know?" He moved around the desk toward her. "There's a SIGN on the door! Did you even bother to READ it?"

Monika's eyes darted to the door. There, taped to the inside, was a piece of paper with bold red letters: DO NOT ENTER - BY ORDER OF D. Charles.

She hadn't seen it when she came in. She'd been too ****, too panicked—

"I'm so sorry, sir, I'll leave right now—" She turned toward the door, still clutching the small trash can like a shield.

"Oh no you don't." His voice dropped to something even more menacing. "You don't get to waltz in here, violate direct orders, and just walk away. What's your name?"

Monika froze, her back to him.

"I said, what's your NAME?"

Slowly, knowing she had ****, Monika turned slightly, still keeping her face angled down. Her voice came out strangled. "M-Mona, sir."

"Mona P." He said it like it tasted bad. "And how long have you worked for Facilities, Mona?"

"I... I just started today, sir."

"TODAY?" His voice rose again. "They sent a BRAND NEW employee to the executive floor? On a Saturday? When I specifically—" He pulled out his phone. "That's it. I'm calling Emma Rodriguez right now. This is completely unacceptable."

Monika's blood turned to ice. "No, please, sir, I made a mistake, I'll—"

But he was already dialing, the phone pressed to his ear, his furious eyes never leaving her hunched, trembling form.

She couldn't breathe. The sound of her own heartbeat filled the silence between rings.

Then, a click. A voice on the other end.

"Hello? This is Emma Rodriguez, Facilities Manager. How may I—"

David interrupted, his tone cold and clipped. "It's David Charles. I'm standing in my office right now and one of your people. Mona P., according to her badge." His eyes bore into Monika's hunched form. "She entered my locked office despite explicit instructions. I want an explanation, and I want it now."

A pause. Monika could hear the faint murmur of Emma's response through the phone, though she couldn't make out the words.

"I don't care if it's her first day," David snapped. "Get up here. Third floor. My office. Now."

He ended the call with a sharp tap and slammed the phone back into the receiver. His gaze never left Monika.

"You're going to stand right there," he said, his voice like ice, "until Emma arrives. Don't move. Don't touch anything. Don't even think about leaving."

Monika's legs felt weak. She nodded mutely, still clutching the trash can, her face burning with shame.

The seconds stretched into minutes. David moved behind his desk, gathering files, pointedly ignoring her while somehow making his disdain palpable. Every rustle of paper, every drawer opening, felt like an accusation.

Monika stood frozen, her muddy stilettos planted on the expensive carpet, her uniform suddenly feeling tighter, hotter, more suffocating than ever.

Her eyes drifted to the floor-to-ceiling windows behind David's desk. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the parking lot below, where she could see the white tents of the charity event still in progress. Somewhere down there was her Mercedes. Her driver. Her real life.

But the window also reflected the room behind her. And in that reflection, backlit by the golden light, she saw herself.

The image was ghostly, translucent, but somehow more honest than any mirror. A hunched figure in pale blue custodial clothes, shoulders curved inward, head bowed. The elegant line of her neck, the feature photographers always praised, was lost in the defensive hunch of her posture. Her strawberry blonde hair, usually styled to perfection, was scraped back so severely it looked harsh, unflattering.

No grace. No poise. No glamour.

Just a woman in an ill-fitting uniform, clutching a trash can, waiting to be reprimanded by her supervisor.

The sunlight streaming through the window seemed to spotlight her reflection, as if the universe itself wanted her to see what she'd become. Outside, in the golden glow of late afternoon, the charity event continued. People in designer clothes sipped champagne. Photographers captured perfect moments. Her world carried on without her.

And here she stood, on the wrong side of the glass. Not the star of the show, but the help. The invisible person no one looked at twice.

Monika **** her eyes away from the window, back to the floor. But the image was burned into her mind. That hunched, defeated figure. That ordinary woman.

Mona P.

Monika couldn't move. Her legs felt like lead, rooted to the expensive carpet. She stood in the corner of David's office, head bowed, the trash can still clutched in her white-knuckled grip.

A tear slipped down her cheek. Then another. She tried to blink them back, but they kept coming, hot trails on her bare, blotchy skin. This was it. Emma would arrive, David would explain everything, and somehow the truth would come out. Her real identity. The photos. Everything.

She was going to be caught.

The thought spiraled through her mind, each repetition making her chest tighter. What would happen when they realized who she really was? Would they call Richard? The press? Would photos of her like this, crying in a janitor's uniform, end up on every gossip site by morning?

The minutes crawled by. David continued sorting through his files, his silence more damning than any words. Monika kept her head down, tears dripping silently onto the uniform shirt.

KNOCK KNOCK.

David hit a button and the door lock released.

BUZZ.

Emma Rodriguez strode in, her expression a carefully controlled mask of professional concern. She took in the scene immediately: David Charles behind his desk, radiating cold fury, and Monika hunched in the corner, clutching a trash can.

"Mr. Charles," Emma said, her voice crisp and apologetic. "I am so sorry about this. I got here as quickly as I could."

"Your employee," David gestured sharply at Monika, "entered my locked office. Despite explicit instructions to Facilities that no one, under any circumstances, was to enter today."

"I understand, and I apologize profusely," Emma said smoothly. "Mona is brand new. First day, actually. She clearly hasn't been properly briefed on building protocols."

"First day?" David's voice dripped with disdain. "And you sent her to the executive floor? Unsupervised?"

"That's on me," Emma said, her tone conveying sincere regret. "It won't happen again. I'll make sure she understands the severity of this breach."

David studied Emma for a moment, then glanced at Monika's hunched form. "See that you do. I don't want to see her on this floor again."

"Absolutely. Again, my deepest apologies." Emma turned to Monika. "Come with me. Now."

Monika set down the trash can with trembling hands and moved toward the door, keeping her head down, her tears still falling as she wiped her face with her sleeve.

Emma held the door open, her face professionally neutral until they stepped into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind them.

Then Emma's hand shot out and clamped around Monika's wrist, her grip iron-tight.

"What the HELL do you think you're doing?" Emma hissed, dragging Monika down the hallway away from David's office. "Do you have any idea what you've just done?"

"I-I'm s…s-sorry, I-I didn't mean—" Monika stumbled, trying to keep up. Her voice came out small, wavering.

Why am I talking like this? Some distant part of her mind registered the sound of her own voice. Weak. Timid. This isn't me. I don't apologize like this. I don't stutter.

"You entered a restricted office! On your first day!" Emma's voice was low but venomous. "That executive could file a formal complaint. Do you understand what that means?"

They reached the end of the hallway, out of earshot from any offices. Emma spun Monika around, her dark eyes flashing with fury.

"I should fire you right now. I should call security and have you escorted out of this building immediately."

Monika's blood turned to ice. "N-no, please—"

"Please?" Emma's laugh was harsh. "You think you can just violate direct orders and beg your way out of it?"

"I-I made a m-mistake, I'm s-sorry, please d-don't—" Monika's voice cracked.

Stop it. Stop stuttering. Stand up straight. Tell her who you really are.

But her body wouldn't obey. Her shoulders stayed hunched. Her head stayed down. The words tangled in her throat.

The image flashed through her mind: security guards escorting her through the lobby in this uniform, past the glass doors where the charity event was still happening, where photographers might see, where someone would surely take a photo. "Mona P." being removed from the building by security. The story would spread instantly. Someone would recognize her. Connect the dots. The media would destroy her.

She'd be ruined.

"P-please," Monika whispered, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. Her voice was barely audible, meek in a way she'd never heard it before. "Please, I-I'll do anything. J-just don't call security. I'll cl-clean p-properly. I'll f-follow all the rules. I'll—"

What am I doing? I'm Monika Pritzker. I don't beg. I don't plead. I give orders. I—

But the thought felt distant, like something from another life. Another person.

Emma studied her for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she sighed heavily.

"Come on!" She yanked Monika toward the elevator. "We're going back to my office. You and I need to have a serious conversation about your future here."

They rode the elevator in tense silence. Emma's grip never loosened on Monika's wrist. Monika kept her head down, trying to control her ragged breathing, trying to stop the tears.

Why can't I just tell her? Why can't I stand up straight and demand she let me go?

But every time she thought about speaking up, about reclaiming her identity, her throat closed. The uniform felt heavier. The badge on her chest felt like a weight pressing down on her shoulders.

I'm not Mona P. I'm Monika Pritzker. I'm...

But was she? The woman who'd commanded rooms, who'd made assistants redo presentations, who'd never apologized for anything—where was she?

The elevator dinged. First floor.

Emma dragged her through the hallway and back into the Facilities Management office. She released Monika's wrist and pointed to the chair in front of her desk.

"Sit."

Monika sank into the chair, her whole body trembling. She kept her eyes fixed on her muddy stilettos, her hands twisted together in her lap like a child being scolded.

When did I become this person? When did I start obeying without question?

Emma circled around behind her. Monika could hear her footsteps, slow and deliberate, but she didn't dare turn around.

I should demand to leave. I should call Richard. I should—

"Do you understand how serious this is?" Emma's voice came from behind her, cold and measured.

"Yes," Monika whispered.

"I don't think you do."

Monika's shoulders hunched further inward. She said nothing. Couldn't say anything.

This isn't me. This isn't who I am.

But the woman sitting in this chair, trembling and tearful, wearing a custodian's uniform with a badge that read "Mona P."—this woman felt terrifyingly real.