HER LOVE BETWEEN LUXURY AND DANGER

(Evelyn POV)

I'm going to collapse before I turn twenty-four, and nobody will even notice.

The thought crosses my mind as I scrub the twentieth floor of the Sterling Towers bathroom, my knees aching against the cold tile. My reflection in the polished mirror shows exactly what five hours of sleep and two jobs look like: dark circles that makeup can't hide, lips cracked from forgetting to drink water, and braids that I redid myself last week because salons are for people with disposable income.

I am not that kind of person.

"Evelyn!" Mama Kike's voice echoes from the hallway. She's the cleaning supervisor, a round woman whose bark is worse than her bite. "Are you still washing that toilet?

Be fast! We get three more floors before four o'clock!"

"Yes, ma!" I call back, dunking my rag into the bucket of bleach water that's turned my hands two shades lighter than my arms.

The bathroom gleams now(spotless, perfect, exactly how rich people expect their toilets to look). Never mind that the person who cleaned it hasn't had a proper meal since yesterday afternoon. Never mind that while I'm scrubbing their shit, literally, my mother is at the market trying to sell enough provisions to keep the lights on for another week.

I gather my supplies and step into the hallway just as a group of corporate women click past in heels that cost more than my monthly earnings. They don't look at me. I'm furniture to them. Invisible labor.

I prefer it that way.

The elevator dings, and I wheel my cart inside, pressing the button for the seventeenth floor. My phone buzzes in my pocket(a text from my younger cousin, Salie).

"Aunty says you should buy paracetamol on your way home. She is having a headache again."

My chest tightens. Mama's headaches have been getting worse. Last month, the doctor said it was stress. This month, he said we need to run tests. Tests we can't afford.

I text back: "Okay"

The elevator opens, and I push my cart into another world of glass offices and leather chairs. This floor houses the executive offices(the real money. I'm not usually assigned here, but Mama Kike said someone called in sick).

I start with the conference room, wiping down the massive table where people probably make decisions about millions of naira without blinking. There's still coffee in some of the cups, pastries half-eaten on plates. I wrap the leftovers in a napkin and slip them into my bag. Mama will appreciate the meat pies.

Waste is a sin when you've known hunger.

I'm finishing the windows when I hear a deep male voice approaching.

"-don't care what the board thinks. If they can't deliver the numbers, replace them."

I freeze. That voice carries the kind of cold certainty that makes people lose jobs. I duck behind my cart, hoping to finish and leave before-

The door swings open.

Three men in expensive suits enter, but my eyes lock on the