Watching

The city glitters at three in the morning.

I stand at the penthouse window, mop forgotten in my hand, watching the lights shimmer like stars fallen to earth. This is my favorite part of the night, when the cleaning is almost done and I can steal a moment of beauty before returning to reality.

The penthouse belongs to someone wealthy. That much is obvious from every surface, every texture. Italian marble. Hand-stitched leather. Art that belonged in museums, not living rooms.

I don't know who lives here. I don't want to know.

Six months of cleaning this space, and I've never seen the owner. The refrigerator stays empty except for bottles of water and expensive wine. The bed is always perfectly made, by me, the previous night. The closet holds suits that whisper of money when I dust near them.

Sometimes I imagine who he might be. A businessman. A diplomat. Someone who moves through the world like he owns it.

But I never ask. Asking leads to caring, and caring leads to disappointment.

I return to mopping, humming softly. The penthouse has excellent acoustics, another luxury I'll never afford.

Three floors below, Gianni Rizzo watches.

The security feed fills his screen, sharp and clear. She stands at his window, lost in the view, and he memorizes every detail.

The way she holds the mop like she's forgotten it exists. The slight tilt of her head. The movement of her lips as she hums something he can't quite hear.

He's been watching her for six months.

Not constantly. He's a busy man. But enough. Enough to know her name is Serena. Enough to know she works two jobs, this one at night, another at a coffee shop during the day. Enough to know she has a sick mother and an apartment in a neighborhood he would never visit.

Enough to know she looks at his books like she wishes she had time to read them.

"You're doing it again."

Marco's voice comes from the doorway. His right hand. His oldest friend.

"Doing what?"

"Watching the cleaner." Marco crosses to look at the screen. "This is getting strange, Gianni. Even for you."

"She's interesting."

"She's an employee." Marco said it the way one might remind a king he was staring at a servant.

"Not technically. She works for the building's cleaning service."

Marco makes a sound of disgust. "Semantics. If anyone found out the head of the Rizzo family was obsessed with the woman who mops his floors..."

"I'm not obsessed."

But even as he says it, Gianni knows it's not quite true.

There's something about her. The way she moves through his space like she belongs there, not arrogantly, but naturally. The small smiles she gives herself when she discovers something she likes. The gentleness with which she handles his possessions.

She doesn't know who he is. Doesn't know what he does. Doesn't know that the suits she dusts near were cut by tailors in Milan who keep waiting lists measured in years.

She sees only the space. Never the man.

And somehow, that makes him want to be seen by her more than he's wanted anything in years.

"The masquerade is next week." Marco changes the subject. "All building staff are required to attend."

Gianni's attention sharpens.

"All staff?"

"Building tradition. Even the cleaners." Marco's gaze is knowing. "Don't do anything stupid."

"I never do anything stupid."

"You're watching a woman clean your apartment at three in the morning. That's the definition of stupid."

Gianni doesn't respond.

On the screen, Serena finishes mopping. She takes one last look at the view, his view, through his windows, and her expression catches him off guard, raw and unguarded.

Longing. Pure and unguarded.

She wants something she can't have. He recognizes the feeling.

The masquerade is next week.

For the first time in his carefully controlled life, Gianni Rizzo is considering doing something very, very stupid.