The first thing Maya Brooks heard was the splash. The second was laughter, sharp and eager, traveling across the polished lobby before the water had finished spreading beneath the reception desk.
By the time she turned, an elderly woman in a faded blue cleaning uniform was kneeling beside an overturned mop bucket while a younger woman in a pink designer suit stood over her, holding one expensive shoe away from the puddle.
The younger woman's face was twisted with theatrical disgust.
"Trash gets washed away," the woman announced, loudly enough for the security guards to hear. "Maybe somebody should explain that to the people who hire the trash."
The elderly cleaner looked at the water, then at the woman's shoe. "I'm sorry, young lady. I was only doing my job. The bucket was beside the wall, and I was moving it out of your way."
"Your filthy mop touched my shoes. Do you have any idea how much these cost?" The younger woman turned toward the gathering employees as though she expected applause. Several people lowered their eyes. A receptionist covered her mouth, uncertain whether the expression she was hiding was laughter or discomfort. Nobody moved to help the cleaner.
Maya stepped out from behind the accounting department's glass partition. "She apologized," she said. "And she's somebody's grandmother. You can speak to her without humiliating her."
The woman in pink turned slowly. Her name was Shenine Moore, brand director at Hail House Group, and she was accustomed to conversations ending when she entered them. She looked Maya over from her practical flats to the employee badge clipped to her cardigan. "Mind your business, accounts girl. This is between me and the help."
"She's an employee," Maya answered. "And she deserves an apology, not an audience."
A hush settled over the lobby. Maya could feel herself trembling, though she kept her hands at her sides. She was twenty-eight years old, eight months into a difficult but promising job, and she understood exactly how dangerous it was to contradict Shenine Moore in public. Everybody at headquarters knew Shenine was dating Jamal Hail, the company's young chief executive. Everybody knew she had the power to make someone's week miserable without ever issuing a formal order.
But the old woman was still on her knees.
"Maya," a voice called from the mezzanine. "What is going on down there?"
Jamal Hail came down the broad staircase with a telephone in one hand and a tablet in the other. He was thirty-three, handsome in the polished way corporate portraits demanded, and wore a dark suit that made him appear older than he was. The moment he saw Shenine's face, his expression hardened. He did not look first at the spilled water, the cleaner, or the employees standing in a frightened semicircle.
He looked at his girlfriend.
"Babe," Shenine said, her voice suddenly trembling. "She screamed at me. In front of everyone. All I asked was for the floor to be cleaned properly."
Maya stared at her. "That is not what happened."
"Maya," Jamal said. "Apologize to Shenine. Now."