They Made Me Use The Service Entrance—Not Knowing I Own The Building”
The Service Entrance Confrontation
The December wind whipped around the corners of the Monarch, Manhattan’s most exclusive residential building, as I approached its gleaming entrance. Snow dusted my simple wool coat, not the designer labels typically seen in this neighborhood, but I had my reasons for maintaining appearances.
“Good evening,” I said to Maxwell, the night doorman who’d worked here for 20 years. He’d never seen me without my maintenance uniform before.
His eyes swept over my modest attire with practiced disdain. “Service entrance is around back,” he gestured dismissively toward the alley. “This door is for residents only.”
I glanced up at the penthouse windows, my home, though no one knew it. The mysterious owner of the Monarch was notorious for their privacy.
Shell companies within shell companies protected my identity, letting me move freely through my own building unrecognized. “Actually,” I began, “I’m here to see my sister, Penthouse B.”
Maxwell’s sneer deepened. “Miss Victoria Thompson doesn’t associate with your kind. Now, service entrance is that way.”
He pointed again to the alley. If he only knew that Miss Victoria Thompson had only moved into Penthouse B because I’d allowed it, hoping my sister might have changed since our parents died.
The building’s strict co-op board had mysteriously waived their usual requirements for her on my anonymous orders, of course. I pulled out my phone, opening the building management app I’d had custom-designed.
“Interesting approach to customer service, Maxwell.” “Listen,” he stepped forward menacingly, “I’ve worked here 20 years. I know every resident, every approved guest. You’re neither.”
“So, unless you want me to call security…” “Please do,” I smiled, typing in my authorization code. “I’d love to meet the team I hired.”
His radio crackled. “Maxwell, we have an alert from ownership. Please stand down immediately.”
The color drained from his face as my signature appeared on his security tablet. This was the same signature that appeared on his paychecks.
“But, but you’re the owner?” “Yes,” I watched the realization hit him. “Though I prefer ‘your kind’ or ‘servant,’ such colorful terms for someone who signs your bonus checks.”
