The Factory Floor
The noise of the Sterling textile mill was deafening. The rhythmic clacking of looms and the heavy hum of machinery was a world away from the silent, carpeted hallways of the corporate high-rises Victoria was used to.
On her first day, the foreman, a burly man named Harris who had known Eleanor for decades, handed Victoria a pair of safety glasses and heavy work gloves.
“No special treatment here, princess,” Harris grunted. “You’re on quality control. Line four.”
May you like
Victoria’s feet ached by noon. Her fingers, unaccustomed to physical labor, were raw and blistered by sunset. She expected the workers to mock her—she was, after all, the disgraced wife of the CEO. But instead, she found something worse: indifference. To them, she was just another set of hands, and not particularly efficient ones.
As she swept the floor at the end of a grueling ten-hour shift, she saw Eleanor standing on the catwalk above, watching her in silence. Victoria gritted her teeth, refusing to let the older woman see her cry.
