Chapter 7 Breaking Point
"Phoebe has been transferred to Facilities and Cleaning. She accepted the reassignment calmly."
"Calmly?" Noah arched an eyebrow, exhaling a perfect smoke ring, his lips curving into a sardonic smile. "What exactly did she say?"
"She said getting her pay was enough and she wouldn't upset you anymore."
Noah's hand froze mid-motion as he was about to extinguish his cigar.
He narrowed his eyes, something like confusion flickering through his dark gaze.
Her complete resignation left him with an inexplicable irritation.
"Is that so?" A cold laugh escaped his lips as he leaned back in his chair. "Her self-respect has certainly been thoroughly destroyed."
He paused for a moment before issuing his next command to Monica.
"Since she's so accommodating, give her extra work."
"After all, at her age, she should be among the younger staff in the cleaning department. It's only appropriate she takes on more responsibilities."
Monica hesitated, showing rare uncertainty. "Mr. White, isn't that a bit... harsh? Maybe we should take her physical limits into consideration."
Noah said nothing. Monica immediately realized she had overstepped, tensing visibly before changing the subject. "By the way, Jackson Pierce from Synergy Global is hosting his birthday celebration on Monday. Will you be attending?"
"Yes."
"I'll have your preferred whiskey prepared."
"Handle it as you see fit."
After ending the call, Noah attempted to refocus on the documents before him, but found himself unable to concentrate on a single word.
No tears, no protests, just quiet acceptance?
Phoebe kept redefining his understanding of her. He simply couldn't believe that someone's inherent nature could be so thoroughly altered in just three years.
He was determined to see just how long she could maintain this façade.
Since she joined the cleaning staff, Phoebe's life has become brutally simple; it now consists of endless labor and verbal abuse.
The cleaning supervisor was a woman in her forties named Elodie, whom everyone called by her first name.
She seemed to despise Phoebe on sight and found new ways to torment her daily.
"That corner! Are you blind? Polish it properly! Still think you're Miss Foster, the socialite?"
"Move faster! A guest vomited—you want to leave it overnight?"
"What are you staring at? Yes, I'm talking to you! Now go scrub every toilet on the third floor!"
Each day, Phoebe wore a gray uniform with a face mask, moving through the back corridors and hidden corners of Starlight Club.
She was assigned the filthiest, most demanding tasks: cleaning up vomit from intoxicated patrons, unclogging toilets, handling mountains of garbage.
The smell of disinfectant and filth clung to her constantly.
Her coworkers avoided her, whispering behind her back about the murderer who did time.
Yet strangely, Phoebe's mind felt more at peace than it had in months.
Here, she no longer had to wear the revealing greeter uniform or force smiles at leering men with wandering hands.
Most importantly, she didn't have to constantly fear turning a corner and coming face to face with Noah.
She was like a snail retreated into its shell, trading physical exhaustion for moments of mental tranquility.
One evening, well past ten o'clock—well past the end of her shift—Phoebe's stomach cramped with hunger. She was heading to the cafeteria to scavenge whatever leftover food might remain when Elodie intercepted her at the doorway.
"Wait, Phoebe!"
Phoebe's heart sank with dread.
Sure enough, Elodie pointed imperiously toward the upper floors. "There's a big birthday party on the rooftop tonight. We're short-staffed. Go up and help with the setup."
Phoebe's face paled further. She instinctively refused. "Elodie, it's after hours and I need to grab some food."
"Is that so?" Elodie placed her hands on her hips, her voice turning shrill. "All you think about is food? I'm doing you a favor by offering overtime! What, you don't want the job anymore?"
"I could report to Ms. Lane right now that you're refusing work assignments! We'll see what matters more then—your empty stomach or your employment!"
The name "Ms. Lane" froze Phoebe in place.
Noah was the influence behind Monica.
All her humiliating submission was to avoid provoking Noah's further wrath.
Phoebe clutched the rag in her hand tightly, the hunger pangs so intense she could barely stand.
She'd gone almost a full day without a meal.
Finally, she relaxed her grip.
"I'll go."
When the elevator doors slid open, a wave of alcohol and perfume hit her face.
Phoebe instinctively hesitated.
Before her was another world entirely.
Unlike the already opulent main hall downstairs, the rooftop had been transformed into a pool party with the heating cranked high.
Azure water rippled beneath atmospheric lights, reflecting dreamlike patterns.
Around the pool, champagne towers reached skyward while beautiful people drifted between them, laughing and drinking as music threatened to tear the night sky apart.
The bikini-clad hostesses, as dazzling as butterflies, flocked around the wealthy and powerful male guests, their laughter ringing through the air.
This was paradise. A lavish playground.
While she stood there in her gray, dirt-stained cleaning uniform, clutching a black garbage bag, completely out of place.
Her stomach ached with emptiness, her injured leg throbbing with pain.
But Phoebe merely lowered her head, avoiding all eye contact, and began her assigned task—collecting empty bottles and trash scattered across the floor.
She moved carefully through the gaps between people, wanting only to finish her work and escape this suffocating place.
Suddenly, a loud splash erupted as a man was playfully shoved into the pool by his friends, sending up a massive spray of water.
The water drenched Phoebe completely, the shock making her weakened body sway.
She gasped, her body tilting uncontrollably sideways, colliding directly with a woman nearby.
"Who the hell! Watch where you're going!" A sharp female voice cut through the music.
Phoebe steadied herself and quickly raised her head to apologize. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
She was cut off mid-sentence.
The woman wore a pristine white dress and immaculate makeup.
Now she was staring at the slight water mark on her hem with utter disgust.
"Sorry? Oh, please." The woman looked Phoebe up and down with contempt. "Seriously, who let the help in? You're embarrassing yourself. You don't belong here. Look at yourself—filthy!"
She pinched her nose as if Phoebe were garbage herself.
"Do you know how much this dress costs? You couldn't afford it if you sold yourself! It's ruined!"
The color drained from Phoebe's face.
She gripped the edge of the garbage bag so tightly her nails dug into her palms, but she felt no pain.
The music seemed to fade as some people turned to watch the confrontation, eager for drama.
The commotion attracted attention from a sofa by the pool.
A man glanced toward Phoebe, catching her downcast profile. In the colorful lights, her features appeared delicate despite her circumstances. He raised an eyebrow and spoke up.
"What's going on, Zola? Who's upset you?"
Hearing his voice, Zola immediately switched to a wounded expression and sashayed over, swinging her hips as she approached the man lounging on a deck chair.
"Mr. Pierce! Look at my dress! That cleaner just ruined it. So unlucky!"
A young man in flashy swim shorts reclined on the lounge chair, holding a whiskey glass. He watched the scene with evident amusement.
This was Jackson Pierce, heir to Synergy Global and a notorious playboy in Noah's social circle.
After hearing Zola's complaint, rather than showing anger, Jackson laughed softly.
His gaze moved past Zola, landing directly on the soaking wet Phoebe. A spark of interest lit his eyes.
He waved Zola away casually.
"It's just a dress, babe. I'll buy you ten more tomorrow."
Then he raised his chin toward Phoebe and lazily beckoned with his finger.
"You. Cleaning girl. Come here."
More curious gazes turned toward the spectacle, filled with mockery and anticipation.
Phoebe knew she was in trouble, but here, she couldn't afford to offend anyone. Closing her eyes briefly, she dragged her injured leg forward amid the laughter, walking step by painful step toward Jackson.
She finally reached Jackson's lounge chair, head bowed, voice dry.
"Mr. Pierce."
Jackson lifted his eyelids languidly, his gaze roaming over her body without restraint as he flashed a playful smile.