My Billionaire Boss Ruined My Floor — So I Pinched His Ear and Audited His Rival

Part 1

I took the job at the Harrison estate because it paid forty-five dollars an hour and included full dental.

I didn’t care that the gothic mansion was hidden behind acres of ancient pines in upstate New York.

I certainly didn’t care about the ridiculous rumors that my new boss was an immortal predator who ran Wall Street from the shadows.

I had survived cleaning penthouse suites for tech billionaires and demanding actors.

A reclusive trust fund baby with a gothic aesthetic wasn’t going to scare me away from a fully charged vacuum.

Before arriving here, I spent three grueling years dealing with the absolute worst of the ultra-rich.

I once famously told an A-list celebrity to pick up his own discarded room service trays if he wanted fresh towels.

That little incident got me fired, but it also caught the attention of an elite domestic staffing agency.

They sent me straight to this colossal, brooding estate with a warning that the owner was highly particular.

The head butler, Mr. Arthur, looked like a perpetually nervous man who was constantly expecting the walls to sprout ears.

He gave me a terrifying orientation on my very first day.

His voice actually trembled as we walked through the dimly lit, cavernous hallways lined with sixteenth-century tapestries.

I was to clean the east wing strictly between ten in the morning and four in the afternoon.

I was never to enter the subterranean levels under any circumstances.

If I saw Mr. Harrison, I was to lower my gaze and never speak unless spoken to.

He warned me that men went into the boss’s study and sometimes didn’t come out the same.

I just snapped on my bright yellow rubber gloves and asked if the baseboards needed floor cleaner or vinegar.

Mr. Arthur stared at me like I was already a dead woman walking.

He told me that my survival depended entirely on my invisibility.

I found the dramatic warnings absolutely exhausting.

Rich people always thought they were the center of the universe.

For the first two weeks, I didn’t see a single trace of the mysterious billionaire.

I settled into my routine, aggressively vanquishing dust bunnies from priceless Persian rugs.

I completely reorganized the massive pantry using airtight containers, muttering about the previous maid’s appalling lack of skills.

The rest of the staff moved like terrified mice, jumping at the sound of the wind rattling the stained glass.

They whispered wild rumors about meat deliveries arriving in unmarked refrigerated trucks at two in the morning.

I ignored every single one of them and focused on keeping the mahogany floors flawless.

Then came the Friday evening of the torrential downpour.

I had been assigned the grand foyer, a sprawling expanse of imported marble that required a delicate buffing process.

I spent three agonizing hours on my hands and knees with specialized wax and a microfiber cloth.

Sweat soaked through my gray uniform, but the floor finally gleamed like a perfect mirror.

It beautifully reflected the massive crystal chandelier hanging two stories above.

I stood up, stretched my aching lower back, and smiled at my masterpiece of domestic labor.

That was the exact moment the massive double oak doors slammed open.

A gust of freezing rain blew into the foyer, followed by a towering figure.

Greg Harrison had finally arrived.

He was massive, wearing a bespoke charcoal suit that clung to his broad shoulders.

His dark hair was slicked back by the rain, and his features were sharp and impossibly pale.

But I wasn’t looking at his striking jawline or the dangerous grace of his movements.

I was staring directly at his heavy custom leather boots.

They were completely soaked in rainwater and caked in thick, black mud.

He took a step into my pristine foyer.

A massive muddy footprint stamped right onto the center of my freshly buffed marble.

The supposedly immortal king of the night was completely ignoring my hard work.

He had just returned from some mysterious business trip, looking tired and utterly impatient.

He took another step, leaving a second filthy mark on the floor.

I yelled out to him, my voice echoing sharply through the massive space.

He froze instantly.

I guess nobody had dared to yell at him in a few centuries.

He slowly turned his head, and I swear his eyes flashed a dangerous, unnatural red in the dim light.

He probably expected to see an assassin, but instead, he saw a furious housekeeper wielding a Swiffer.

He rumbled an excuse me in a voice that probably made grown men weep.

It was a deep baritone infused with centuries of dark magic, but I didn’t flinch.

I stomped over to him, my rubber-soled sneakers squeaking indignantly against the marble.

I demanded to know if he completely missed the giant industrial-grade welcome mat outside.

Greg stared down at me, genuinely baffled, and let his terrifying aura drop the temperature in the room to freezing.

The chandelier rattled as he leaned down so his face was inches from mine.

He demanded to know if I had any idea who I was speaking to.

He called himself the master of the domain who walked wherever he pleased and did whatever he wanted.

I fired back that I was the person who cleaned up his messes, and right now, he was acting like a petulant toddler.

I pointed aggressively at the mud, completely ignoring the fact that the room felt like an icebox.

He scoffed, deliberately lifted his muddy boot, and stomped it down hard to smear the dirt in a wide arc.

He ordered me to clean it up and turned to walk toward the grand staircase.

Something inside me snapped completely.

I was so tired of dealing with the sheer, unadulterated arrogance of men who thought the world was their personal ashtray.

I lunged forward before he could take another step.

I reached up, pinched the immortal king’s ear, and prepared for the consequences.