The Princess of the Janitor. Chapter 1: The Unexpected Encounter

The GNB Tower stood like a crystal and steel monolith, a temple of power where Montgomery "Monty" Sterling reigned undisputed. On the 50th floor, his office was a sanctuary of opulence: an Italian walnut desk, Danish design lamps, and windows that turned the city into a tapestry of submissive lights at his feet. Monty, 38 years old, was the embodiment of perfection: 5'9" tall, body sculpted by elite trainers, skin as soft as silk thanks to $500 Swiss creams. His dark brown hair, cut with surgical precision, framed a face with high cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and blue eyes that could make a subordinate tremble with a single glance. That night, he wore a tailored navy blue suit, an impeccable white shirt, a burgundy silk tie, and platinum cufflinks that shone like stars. His Oxford shoes, now stained, were worth more than the monthly salary of any janitor.

It was 10:47 p.m. The building was deserted, except for the distant hum of a vacuum cleaner. Monty, exhausted from a $500 million merger, put away his tablet in his Hermès briefcase, put on his cashmere coat, and took the private elevator. In the elevator mirror, he smoothed out an imaginary wrinkle. Everything in his life was under control. Everything.

As he stepped out into the white marble lobby, his footsteps echoed like gunfire. Then, his right foot collided with a forgotten bucket of dirty water in the hallway. The bucket tipped over with an obscene splash, the soapy water splashing his shoes, soaking the Italian leather, and rising up the hem of his pants.

"SON OF A BITCH!", Monty roared, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife. He crouched down, furious, his trembling fingers touching the ruined leather. "WHAT THE HELL IS THIS? SOMEONE'S GOING TO PAY FOR THIS!"

From the lateral shadows, a figure emerged with feline slowness. Bruno Kowalski, the night janitor, appeared pushing a cleaning cart loaded with chemicals, dirty rags, and disinfectant bottles. At 55 years old, Bruno was a titan: 6'3" of pure muscle, broad shoulders like a door, arms veined with thick cables and scars from decades of physical labor. His blue overalls were stained with grease, dust, and sweat, with the zipper down to his navel, revealing a hairy and bronzed chest where a silver chain hung against his skin. His grayish hair, short and disheveled, contrasted with a nascent beard that gave him the air of a hungry wolf. His calloused hands held a mop, and his brown eyes, shining with pure malice, locked onto Monty as a twisted smile formed on his fleshy and moist lips.

"Hey, boss," Bruno growled, his voice deep and raspy, with a working-class accent that dragged the vowels as if savoring them. "Looks like your executive shoes just got into my dirty water. My apologies, princess." He left the mop against the cart and approached with deliberate steps, his smell of stale sweat, industrial soap, and cheap beer invading Monty's space like a thick fog. "I was cleaning ...