Chapter 1

I looked around my apartment, the place I had called home for the last five years. It was a good place, high up, with a view of the city that made you feel like you were on top of the world. But my new job was in a different state, a bigger opportunity I couldn't pass up. It was time to move on. That meant tying up loose ends, and one of them was Mr. Henderson.

He had been my cleaner for the entire five years I lived here. He was reliable, he did a decent job, and I had always treated him well, paying him more than the going rate and giving him a generous bonus every Christmas. I thought we had a good, professional relationship.

I called him and asked him to come by, telling him I had something to discuss. When he arrived, I offered him a seat and a glass of water.

"Mr. Henderson," I started, trying to be gentle. "I have some news. I'm moving. I've taken a new job out of state, so this will be your last month working for me."

I expected him to be a little disappointed but understanding. I was prepared to give him a nice severance payment, a few months' worth of cleaning fees as a thank you.

He just stared at me, his face blank for a moment. Then a strange smile spread across his lips.

"Moving? That's great, Alex. Good for you," he said, his tone a little too casual. "So, what about my retirement?"

I blinked. "Your retirement? I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"My retirement," he repeated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I've worked for you for five years. I'm getting old. You're successful, you're moving on to bigger things. You should provide for me. It's the right thing to do."

I was so stunned I couldn't speak for a full ten seconds. The sheer absurdity of the request was overwhelming. This wasn't a corporate job with a pension plan, he was a contract cleaner I paid weekly.

"Mr. Henderson," I said, my voice tight. "I pay you for your services. That's our arrangement. I don't owe you a retirement fund."

His smile vanished. His face hardened.

"You don't get it," he said, leaning forward in his chair. "I've kept this place clean for you. I've been loyal. You're rich. A little money for my retirement is nothing to you. But it's everything to me."

I felt a surge of anger. The man I had trusted in my home, the man I had always been fair to, was now trying to extort me.

"That is an absolutely ridiculous demand," I said, my politeness gone. "I am not giving you a retirement fund. That's final."

He scoffed, leaning back and crossing his arms. He looked at me with open contempt.

"Fine," he sneered. "If you won't pay for my retirement, then you can just give me a monthly allowance. A few thousand a month. You won't even notice it's gone. Or better yet," he said, his eyes scanning the room greedily, "you can just give me this apartment when you leave. You're getting a new place anyway. What do you need this one for?"

The audacity was breathtaking. He wasn't just asking for money, he was demanding my property, my home. The man was completely unhinged.

"Are you insane?" I asked, standing up. "A monthly allowance? My apartment? You think you're entitled to my property because you cleaned my floors?"

He stood up too, his face red with anger.

"I took care of this place for you! I made it a home for you to come back to every day!" he shouted. "You young people have no respect, no sense of gratitude! I gave you five years of my life!"

"I paid you for five years of your labor!" I shot back. "We had a transaction, a business arrangement. You were not my family. You were my cleaner. You are not entitled to anything more than the wages I already paid you, which were more than fair."

I walked over to the small table by the door and picked up the spare key I usually left for him.

"This is over, Mr. Henderson," I said, my voice cold and hard. "I don't require your services for the rest of the month. Our professional relationship is terminated, effective immediately."

He just stared at me, his mouth hanging open slightly. He seemed to finally realize that his threats and emotional blackmail weren't working. He was seeing a side of me he'd never seen before, not the lenient, easygoing client, but someone who would not be pushed around.

"You can't do that," he stammered.

"I just did," I said. "You think you can come into my home and demand my assets? You think your service gives you a claim on my life?" I shook my head in disgust. "You're not just entitled, you're delusional."

He looked from the key in my hand to my face, his expression shifting from anger to a kind of pathetic self-pity.

"But what about my daughter's wedding?" he suddenly whined. "Where am I supposed to get the money for that? I was counting on you."

I felt a wave of revulsion. The switch in tactics was so transparently manipulative. He would say anything, invent any sob story, to get what he wanted.

"Your daughter's wedding is your problem, not mine," I said flatly. "Your greed is your problem. You have completely destroyed any goodwill or sympathy I ever had for you."

I tossed the key onto the table. It landed with a loud clatter that echoed in the tense silence.

"Get out of my apartment. Now."

He stared at the key, then back at me, his eyes filled with a hatred that was almost shocking in its intensity. He didn't say another word. He just turned, yanked the door open, and slammed it shut behind him, leaving me alone in the sudden, ringing quiet of my apartment. I stood there for a long time, my heart pounding with adrenaline and a deep, bitter sense of betrayal.