“It’s been five years, hasn’t it?” – the low, husky voice rose right behind me, making me halt, my heart as if it had stopped beating.

I hadn’t intended to look up, but the polished leather shoes stopped in front of me, the sharp scent of expensive cologne filling the cramped elevator. I knew instantly who it was – the man on the 15th floor, the boss infamous for unpleasant rumors. They said he once forced female staff to resign, that his eyes often roamed women’s bodies instead of focusing on reports. I had sworn to keep my distance.

But that sentence – “It’s been five years, hasn’t it?” – froze every muscle in me. Five years ago… that exact span of time was when I had tried to bury away an incident I never wanted to remember.

This morning, I had only intended to cover my mother’s cleaning shift. She had fallen suddenly ill, and since her short-term contract could easily be replaced, she couldn’t risk asking for leave. I pitied her, so I quietly slipped into the oversized uniform, grabbed the mop and bucket, and entered the luxurious skyscraper. My only thought was: finish quickly, finish quietly, and disappear as if I had never been there.

The 15th floor – home to the main conference room and the director’s office – wasn’t even part of my shift today. But I had to bring the cleaning supplies up to storage, and that’s when I accidentally crossed paths with him.

I kept my head down, trying to keep my distance, but there was only one elevator. The doors closed, and the space shrank unbearably.

“When did you start working here?” – his voice broke the silence, half curious, half mocking.
“I… I’m just covering the shift.” – I answered softly, avoiding his gaze.
“Covering the shift… but this face, I could never mistake. It’s been five years, hasn’t it?”

I lifted my head in shock. His eyes on me no longer carried the indifference of a stranger, but the recognition of someone who had known me long ago. Every detail of my face was as though under a spotlight, exposed and undeniable.

I stepped back, my spine pressing hard against the cold elevator wall. Memories came flooding in: the sound of giggles in the school corridor, the shadow of a car pulling up outside the gate, and a gaze from the driver’s seat that once made my skin crawl. I had tried to forget it all, believing time would bury it forever.

The elevator doors slid open, and I rushed out as if escaping. But his voice followed after me:
“Don’t avoid me. We will meet again.”

My legs trembled, my grip on the mop so tight that my fingertips turned white. One question echoed endlessly in my head: Why, after all these years, does he still remember me?

I couldn’t tell my mother. She was weak, and she owed them gratitude for letting her work here. I couldn’t tell my friends either – they would ask the one thing I could never answer: What exactly happened between me and that man five years ago?

Yet my instincts screamed: the peaceful life I had fought so hard to build was about to be swept into a new storm. And that storm began with a single sentence: “It’s been five years, hasn’t it?”

That night, I tossed and turned until dawn. His words replayed in my head like a needle piercing deeper and deeper: “It’s been five years, hasn’t it?” And I knew for certain – he wasn’t speaking idly.

That year, I was 18, freshly graduated from high school. My mother worked as a housekeeper for a wealthy family, and I occasionally helped her to earn extra money for my upcoming college tuition. One evening, while waiting for my mother to finish cleaning, I stood in the courtyard. A luxurious car stopped nearby. The man who stepped out was him—the young, high-profile director already famous in the real estate world.

He stared at me for so long that it made me uncomfortable. A few days later, I received a strange phone call inviting me to a “part-time job interview.” Back then, I was naïve, thinking it was an opportunity. But when I arrived, the quiet hotel room contained only him.

I still remember clearly the calculating look in his eyes, the insinuating words he spoke. I panicked and ran out, lucky that a hotel staff member appeared just in time. He never touched me, but the trauma never left. After that day, I cut all contact, changed my phone number, focused on studying, and tried to forget.

For five years, I told myself it had just been a random incident. He was a busy man—surely he had long forgotten me. But now, he remembered. Clearly. Sharply.

In the following days, I worked under constant dread. Any time I heard the footsteps of a man echoing down the hallway, I jumped. I avoided the 15th floor at all costs, but he started appearing on his own. Once, he stood at the door of the supply room, smirking:
“You haven’t changed much. Don’t think I’ll let it slide like last time.”

My fear grew. I didn’t dare tell my mother—I was afraid she’d lose her job. And I couldn’t tell my friends—who would believe that a janitor had caught the eye of a director?

One evening, while collecting trash on the 10th floor, I noticed an envelope on the reception desk. Scrawled on it were the words:
“Meet me, Room 1505, 8 p.m. tomorrow. If not, I’ll come find you myself.”

My hands trembled violently. That night, I knew I couldn’t keep avoiding him. The past had come knocking, and I had to choose: run forever, or face it and end five years of fear.

At 8 p.m. the next evening, I stood outside Room 1505. The hallway was silent, the yellow light stretching my shadow into a long, thin line. My heart pounded as if it would leap out of my chest. I took a deep breath and knocked.

He opened the door, a faint smile on his lips. The large private office smelled faintly of wine. He sat down, pointing at the chair opposite:
“Sit. I’ve been waiting for you.”

I clenched my fists, refusing to sit:
“What do you want?”

He raised his eyebrows:
“The real question is: why have you been avoiding me for five years? You know I could give you everything—money, a career, an abundant life. All you have to do is… be obedient.”

My throat tightened, but this time it was different. Fear that had been bottled up for years turned into anger. I burst out:
“Do you think money can buy everything? You’re the one who kept me up at night for five years. Do you know what my life has been like?”

He was silent for a few seconds, his eyes flickering with surprise. Then he gave a cold, thin smile:
“Girl, that’s how life is. The weak must seize opportunities. Don’t make yourself a pitiful creature.”

I trembled but kept my head high:
“If you keep harassing me, I’ll go to the police. I’m not that scared 18-year-old anymore.”

The room went still. He tapped his fingers on the table, his eyes turning icy:
“Fine. But remember, your mother’s job… one phone call from me is all it takes.”

That was the final blow, leaving me numb. He didn’t need to touch me—just his power was enough to strangle my family.

I left the room with heavy steps, but in my head, a thought burned bright: if I don’t stand up, my mother will always be a pawn for them to trample.

That night, I decided to write a formal accusation, including everything I remembered from five years ago. I also tried to reach the staff member who had helped me back then—the only person who could confirm my story.

This fight wouldn’t be easy, I knew. But I also knew this: it was time to break free from the shadow of the past, to never tremble before anyone again.

And for the first time in years, I closed my eyes with a new kind of belief: tomorrow, I would no longer be the one running.