You’re just the cleaning lady, sweetheart. Sign the resignation letter or I’ll call ICE

“I’ll sign,” I said softly. “But can I use the conference room? My hands are shaking.” Brittany smirked at her assistant. “Pathetic. Fine. Five minutes.” I walked into the glass conference room, and she followed, arms crossed, filming on her phone for her little internal Slack channel. I sat down. I unclipped my janitor badge. And then I reached into the inside pocket of my uniform and pulled out a second badge. Black. Holographic. The Hartwell Pharmaceuticals corporate seal embossed in silver. Brittany’s smile flickered. “What is that?” “It’s my real badge,” I said, in the unaccented English I’d been hiding for three years. “Dr. Elena Reyes. Internal Compliance and Ethics. I was placed undercover by the board after your uncle suspected someone in upper management was falsifying trial data on the Lumetrix rollout.” Her phone slipped an inch in her hand. “You’re lying.” I slid a folder across the table. Inside were screenshots, timestamps, signed memos. Hers. “I’ve been mopping the 47th floor because that’s where you shred documents at 11 p.m. on Thursdays. You should really empty the bins yourself, Brittany. Cleaning ladies see everything.” The glass door opened. Two men in suits stepped in, followed by Richard Hartwell himself, pale, jaw tight. “Brittany,” he said quietly, “security will escort you to my office.” She tried to laugh. It cracked. “Uncle Rick, she’s the maid—” “She’s the reason this company still has a license,” he said. Then he turned to me and, in front of every employee crowded against the glass, he bowed his head. “Dr. Reyes. Thank you.” I picked up my mop on the way out, because old habits are hard to break. At the elevator, I passed Brittany’s assistant, the one who’d been filming. I smiled. “You can post that video now. Make sure you get the part where she calls ICE.” The doors closed on her white, trembling face. Some floors really do need a deep clean.