Giving birth to triplets from her rapist, Sarah sobbed loudly, and when out of desperation she got a job as a cleaner to feed her children, she suddenly froze in place, recognizing in her boss…

Sarah stood in the doorway of the CEO’s office at the cleaning company «Clean City,» her feet rooted to the floor. Behind the massive oak desk sat Michael Jonathan Wolf. The very man who had shattered her life five years ago.

The one because of whom she was now raising three children alone, working 12-hour shifts for pennies. The man looked up from his documents, and for a moment, recognition flickered in his eyes. But his face quickly became impassive.

«Are you the new cleaner?» he asked in an even tone, as if seeing her for the first time. Sarah felt a lump rising in her throat. She gripped the mop so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

«Yes,» she forced out, lowering her eyes. «Good. You can start.

My office is cleaned daily after seven in the evening. Get the keys from the administrator.» Sarah nodded and hurried out.

In the hallway, she leaned against the wall, trying to stop trembling. «How is this possible? How could fate mock her so cruelly?» Memories flooded in against her will. Five years ago, she was different—young, naive, full of hope.

She was just 22. She was finishing her teaching degree at the university, dreaming of becoming an elementary school teacher. She had a fiancé, Alex, a simple guy from the neighboring building, whom she’d been dating since high school.

Everything changed one evening. She was returning from extra classes; it was already dark. The buses had stopped running, so she decided to take a shortcut through the park.

It was a fatal mistake. The man appeared from behind the trees suddenly. Tall, broad-shouldered, in an expensive suit.

He smelled of alcohol and cigars. Sarah tried to walk around him, but he blocked her path. «Where are you rushing to, beauty?» His voice was hoarse from drinking.

«Please let me pass,» Sarah backed away. But it was too late. He grabbed her arm, pulled her close.

She screamed, called for help, but the park was deserted. No one came. What happened next, she remembered in fragments, like in a fog.

Pain, fear, his heavy breathing, the scent of cologne that now made her nauseous. When it was over, he adjusted his suit and left without looking back. She lay on the cold ground, broken, humiliated, shattered.

Sarah didn’t go to the police. Who would believe her? She had no evidence, and from the man’s appearance, it was clear he had money and connections. She didn’t even tell Alex, making up that she was delayed at the university.

But hiding the consequences was impossible. Two months later, the test showed two lines. Sarah stared at them in horror, not believing her eyes.

This couldn’t be true. But repeated tests confirmed it—she was pregnant. Abortion? The thought flashed and was immediately rejected.

Sarah grew up in a religious family where that was considered a grave sin. And deep down, she understood the child wasn’t at fault for how it was conceived. She couldn’t tell Alex the truth.

She invented a story about a one-night stand at a student party that she regretted. Alex left, slamming the door. «Slut!» he threw at her as he went.

That word echoed in her ears for a long time. Sarah’s parents lived in a small town a thousand miles away. Her mother, learning of her daughter’s pregnancy out of wedlock, burst into tears.

Her father silently left the room and didn’t speak to her for a week. But then they softened; after all, she was their only daughter, and this was their first grandchild. At the ultrasound, Sarah faced another shock—triplets.

The doctor cheerfully announced the news, not noticing how pale the patient became. Three children. Three little lives she was now responsible for.

The birth was difficult. C-section, two weeks in ICU, first her, then the babies. A boy and two girls.

Tiny, three pounds each, but alive, fighting for every breath. Sarah named them Mike, Mary, and Daisy. Simple American names for her little warriors.

When the nurse first placed Mike on her chest—he was born first and the largest—Sarah burst into tears. Not from grief, but from some strange, all-encompassing feeling. This was her son.

No matter how he came into the world, he was now her son. Her parents helped as they could. Her mother came for two months, caring for the grandchildren while Sarah recovered from childbirth.

But then she had to return; her father was ill and needed care. They sent a little money, but their pension was small, and they had their own expenses. Sarah was left alone with three infants in a rented one-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of Chicago.

She had to drop out of university; what studies with triplets? Child benefits were meager, the food bank provided formula sporadically. Sarah didn’t sleep at night—feed one, the second wakes, then the third, and around again.

The first year was hell. Sarah didn’t remember how she survived it. Endless sleepless nights, baby cries, mountains of diapers to wash by hand—no money for a washing machine.

Neighbors complained about the noise, the landlady threatened eviction. When the children turned one, Sarah realized it couldn’t go on like this. She needed a job.

But who would hire a single mother with three toddlers? Daycare was paid, nannies unaffordable. A solution came unexpectedly. Her neighbor, Mrs. Antonia Peterson, a retiree, took pity on her.

She had no grandchildren herself. Her son died in the military, never marrying. «Let’s do this,» she said one day.

«You go to work, and I’ll watch the kids. I’m bored at home anyway, and this will be fun. Just pay me a little extra, for medications at least.»

Sarah cried from gratitude. This was a chance, her only chance to escape poverty. She found a job quickly—as a cleaner in an office building.

The pay was low, but steady. Night shift, from eight in the evening to four in the morning. During the day, she slept in snatches while the kids were with Mrs. Peterson; in the evening, she dropped them off and went to work.

And so day after day. The children grew. Mike, serious, quiet, with brown eyes and dark hair.

Mary, lively, quick, the ringleader in all games. Daisy, quiet, dreamy. She could sit for hours with a picture book.

All three, amazingly similar yet different. Sarah looked at them and wondered if his blood ran in them. But then she pushed those thoughts away.

They were her children, only hers. She gave them life, she raised them, she loved them. When the children turned four, Mrs. Peterson had a stroke.

Sarah rushed between the hospital and work, trying to find a way out. The neighbor survived but could no longer watch the kids; she needed care herself.

She had to find a new job with daytime hours to be home in the evenings with the children. Preschool was a battle; they only gave one spot. She had to write letters to every agency to get all three in.

The company «Clean City» was hiring cleaners. Schedule from 9 a.m. to 7 p.m., salary a bit higher than before. Sarah agreed without hesitation.

At the interview, they warned her: big company, solid clients, including major banks and corporations. Need to be ready for high standards. The first week, she cleaned at the business center «Alpha,» a huge glass building in downtown Chicago, which she used to fear even approaching.

Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, leather sofas in the lobbies. Another world, inaccessible to people like her. On Friday, the shift supervisor, Olivia Johnson, pulled her aside.

«Sarah, there’s a special assignment. Need someone for permanent cleaning of the CEO’s office. Responsible job, important client.

Can you handle it?» Sarah nodded. Work is work; what difference whose office to clean. «Here’s the address,» Olivia handed her a note.

Business center «Imperial,» 45th floor. Company «Wolf and Partners,» a large law firm. Start Monday.

The surname Wolf pricked something in her memory, but Sarah dismissed it. Plenty of Wolfs in a big city. And now she stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall, trying to stop trembling.

Michael Wolf. She remembered that name from the police documents when she finally decided to file a report a week after the incident. The young investigator looked at her sympathetically but shrugged: no evidence, no witnesses, and time had passed.

Identify him? What if you’re wrong? He probably has good lawyers; they’ll sue for slander. Sarah withdrew the report. But she remembered the name.

Michael Jonathan Wolf, 35 years old, co-owner of a law firm. Married. Two children.

Respectable businessman, philanthropist, donates to orphanages. Who would believe such a man capable of violence? And now he was her boss. Irony of fate? Or a trial from above? Sarah forced herself to calm down.

She had three children to feed. She couldn’t lose this job. She’d have to endure, stay silent, pretend nothing happened.

After all, he didn’t even recognize her. To him, she was nobody then and remained nobody now. Just a cleaner, invisible, a shadow.

In the evening after seven, she returned to the office. Wolf was gone. Sarah methodically started cleaning: dusted, mopped the floor, watered the plants.

She tried not to look at the photos on the desk. A beautiful blonde in an expensive dress, two teenage children. Perfect family.

The happy family of the man who ruined her life. Weeks turned into months. Sarah came every evening, cleaned the office, and left.

Sometimes Wolf stayed late at work. He sat at the computer or talked on the phone, paying her no attention. To him, she was part of the furniture, no more noticeable than the office ficus.

Sometimes Sarah caught herself sneaking glances at him. Five years had hardly changed him. Just some gray at the temples and wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

Expensive suits, Swiss watches, confident movements of a successful man accustomed to power. Did she look at him with hatred? No. Hatred required too much energy, and she had none.

All that remained was fatigue and a dull pain deep inside. At home, the children waited. Mike greeted her with a serious gaze beyond his years.

«Mom, are you tired again?» «Sweetie, how was daycare?» «Fine.» They teased Daisy again. Sarah sighed.

Daisy was called fatherless. «Cruel children,» repeating the words of cruel adults. «I fought back,» Mike added defiantly.

«Mike, fighting is bad. But is teasing okay?» In his brown eyes was resentment for his sister. Sarah hugged her son.

What could she say? That the world is unfair? That they’d have to endure mockery because they had no father? That she couldn’t give them what other children had? «Just be strong,» she whispered. «And stick together.» In November, Mary got sick.

It started as a common cold, but the fever lasted a week. The local doctor shrugged: virus, need to wait it out. But Sarah saw her daughter weakening day by day.

The ambulance came at night when Mary started gasping for air. Pneumonia, complication from the flu. Hospital, IVs, shots.

Sarah sat by her daughter’s bed, holding her small hot hand, praying to all the saints. She didn’t go to work for three days. Called Olivia, explained the situation.

She sympathized but warned: if not back by Monday, they’d find a replacement. On Sunday, Mary improved. Fever dropped, breathing evened.

The doctor said the crisis was over, but expensive medications were needed for recovery. Sarah looked at the amount on the prescription and froze. It was her monthly salary…