Why Don’t You Take Me Home?

The click of stilettos echoed across the marble floor. Victoria Sterling, 35, stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows on the 60th floor of Sterling Corporation. Manhattan’s night skyline reflected in her empty eyes. Perfect posture, perfect suit, perfect emptiness. Her phone vibrated on the desk for the tenth time—Mom calling. Victoria turned off the device completely, poured her fourth glass of champagne, and stared at the empty chair beside her. Another birthday party where 500 people showed up, but not one person who actually cared.

.

.

.

The Sterling Corporation ballroom stood empty now, except for scattered champagne bottles and discarded cocktail napkins bearing the company logo. Crystal chandeliers blazed overhead, illuminating the aftermath of a corporate celebration. The cleaning staff wouldn’t arrive for another hour. No one to witness the CEO’s moment of weakness. Victoria raised her glass to the skyline. “Happy birthday to me.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

Meanwhile, Connor Mitchell, 38, pushed his cleaning cart through the Sterling building’s 52nd floor. Soft folk music played through his worn earbuds as he collected trash from executive offices. His movements were efficient, a man who had perfected the art of invisibility. He stopped briefly to straighten his Sterling maintenance uniform and glance at the photo in his wallet. Leo, 9 years old, with a gap-toothed smile and eyes just like his mother’s. The kind of smile that made the overnight shift worth it.

“Hey Mitchell, you’re covering the executive floor tonight,” his supervisor called out. “Jenkins called in sick.” Connor nodded. The executive floor meant better trash—expensive coffee grounds instead of cheap ones, organic fruit peels instead of vending machine wrappers. The small distinctions of working the midnight to 8 shift in a building where the daytime occupants earned his yearly salary in a week.

He wheeled his cart into the service elevator and punched the button for the 60th floor. As the doors closed, he caught his reflection in the polished metal—an etched face with quiet dignity and unspoken loss. Three years a widower, three years of raising Leo alone, three years of night shifts and missed school performances. The elevator opened to pristine hallways lined with glass-walled offices. The cleanup would be minimal here. Executives rarely left messes in their own spaces until he reached the main conference room.

Through the glass wall, Connor spotted a figure slumped in a chair at the head of the massive table. A woman in a black dress, blonde hair cascading across her face, an empty champagne bottle at her feet. He hesitated. Encounters with executives never ended well for maintenance staff, but something in her posture—the devastating loneliness of it—stopped him from quietly backing away.

Connor knocked gently on the glass door. “Excuse me, ma’am. Are you all right?” The woman lifted her head, smeared mascara framing bloodshot eyes. Despite the disheveled appearance, Connor recognized her immediately from company newsletters and lobby portraits. Victoria Sterling, CEO, owner, his boss’s boss’s boss—the woman whose name was on the building.

She stared at him, struggling to focus. “Who are you?”

“Connor Mitchell, ma’am, night maintenance.” Victoria attempted to straighten her posture to recover some dignity. The effort failed spectacularly as she knocked over an empty glass. “I’m fine, just working late.”

Connor nodded, knowing a lie when he heard one. “I’m fine, just tired.” No, Leo. I’m not sad tonight. Would you like me to call someone for you? Your driver, maybe?

Victoria laughed, a hollow sound that echoed in the cavernous room. “There’s no one to call.” She stood unsteadily, gripping the table for support. “Why don’t you take me home?” The words hung between them, raw and broken. Not a proposition, but a plea.

Connor recognized it immediately, the same words he’d whispered to empty rooms after burying Sarah. “Just the two of us?” he asked, the question slipping out before he could stop it.

Victoria’s laugh turned bitter. “Yeah, just me. Always just me.”

Connor heard something beneath her words, a pain that mirrored his own sleepless nights. He removed his work jacket and draped it over her bare shoulders. The fabric swallowed her small frame, making her look more vulnerable than any CEO should ever appear.

“I’m Connor,” he said gently. “Night shift janitor. And you are?”

She looked up with haunting blue eyes, seeing him for the first time. “Victoria Sterling,” she whispered, the name falling from her lips like a confession. “I own this building, and I hate every inch of it.”

Victoria’s black Mercedes crawled through the empty streets of Manhattan. Connor sat behind the wheel, acutely aware of the absurdity—a janitor driving the CEO’s $100,000 car. In the rearview mirror, he watched Victoria stare out the window, her reflection ghostlike against the passing street lights.

“500 people at tonight’s party,” she said quietly. “When they saw me drinking alone, not one person asked if I was okay.”

Connor glanced at her reflection, seeing not the powerful CEO, but a woman drowning in her own success. “I haven’t been to a party since Sarah’s funeral,” he replied. “People look at widowers like they don’t know what to say.”

Victoria’s eyes met his in the mirror. “Sarah, my wife. Cancer. Three years ago.”

Connor nodded. “I’m sorry.”

Victoria nodded, a moment of understanding passing between them. “I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see spreadsheets and profit margins.”

They drove in silence, the city lights blurring past. As they neared Victoria’s apartment building, Connor felt an unexpected connection forming. He had entered her world, and she had stepped into his, both of them seeking solace in each other’s company.

When they arrived, the doorman rushed forward, confusion evident as Connor stepped out of the driver’s side of Victoria Sterling’s car. “Miss Sterling, is everything all right?”

“Fine, Thomas. Mr. Mitchell was kind enough to drive me home.” Her voice had recovered some of its professional strength, though her appearance remained disheveled.

Connor handed her the car keys. “Will you be okay from here, ma’am?”

Victoria hesitated, then nodded. She began to remove his maintenance jacket. “Keep it,” Connor said. “You can return it another time.” As Victoria walked toward the building entrance, she turned back. “Thank you, Connor Mitchell.”

He watched her disappear into the gleaming lobby, then began the long walk to the subway. His shift wasn’t over, but something told him the Sterling Corporation could survive one night without him emptying trash cans.

The Unexpected Connection

One week later, Connor was cleaning the 39th floor when he spotted Victoria at the coffee machine at 2:00 a.m. She was jabbing at the buttons repeatedly, but the machine displayed an error message in angry red letters. She wore an immaculate business suit despite the hour, her hair and makeup perfect. Yet, Connor could see the weariness beneath her polished exterior.

“Let me help,” Connor offered, appearing beside her. Victoria startled, then recognition dawned.

“Mr. Mitchell. Just Connor is fine.” He tapped the machine in a specific spot, and coffee began flowing into her cup. “You have to hit it just right. These machines have personalities.”

“Thank you,” Victoria accepted the coffee. “You’re still working this late?”

“Night shift runs from 11 to 7:00,” Connor explained. “What about you? Shouldn’t CEOs be sleeping in silk pajamas by now?”

Victoria almost smiled at that. “I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see spreadsheets and profit margins.”

They stood drinking coffee in comfortable silence. The building’s night sounds created an oddly intimate atmosphere—the hum of computers on standby, the distant whoosh of elevators, the gentle buzz of fluorescent lights.

“Did you get home safely last week?” Connor asked.

“Thanks to you, yes,” Victoria replied. “And I’m sorry you saw me like that.”

“Everyone has moments they’d rather forget,” Connor said simply. “The important thing is that someone was there to help.”

Victoria studied him with new interest. “Your jacket is in my office. I had it cleaned. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” he replied.

Victoria hesitated. “Would you mind coming to my office? I’d like to return it properly.”

Connor followed her through the empty corridors to her corner office, where the view of the city was breathtaking. The space was minimalist and impersonal, with no family photos or personal touches beyond expensive art that was likely selected by a corporate decorator.

“How long have you lived here?” Connor asked, testing the guitar sound.

“Five years,” Victoria said, sitting on one of the stools. “I’m rarely here except to sleep. It’s beautiful,” Connor offered, though what he meant was it felt empty.

“I know it doesn’t look like anyone lives here,” Victoria said. “My interior designer calls it curated minimalism. I call it not having time to accumulate a life.”

Connor handed her the guitar. “Well, now you’re accumulating music. Show me what you remember from last week.”

Victoria placed her fingers awkwardly on the fretboard, attempting the simple chord progression he taught her in the park. Her first attempt produced a discordant sound that made her wince. “Sorry, I’m not used to being bad at things.”

“You’re not bad,” Connor corrected her. “You’re new. There’s a difference.” He adjusted her fingers slightly. “Try again, but relax your wrist.”

For the next hour, Connor guided Victoria through basic chords and finger positions. She approached the guitar with the same focused determination she likely brought to board meetings. Full concentration, quick adaptation, visible frustration when she didn’t immediately succeed.

“You need to be patient with yourself,” Connor advised after her third exasperated sigh. “No one masters an instrument in one day.”

“I don’t have the luxury of time,” Victoria replied, rubbing her fingertips where the strings had left impressions.

“There are always demands, always deadlines,” she continued, tracing the rim of her glass thoughtfully. “But maybe this is your chance to exist outside of time.”

Connor took the guitar, playing a simple progression. “Music isn’t about rushing to the end. It’s about being present in each note.”

Victoria watched his hands move effortlessly across the strings. “Is that how you wrote songs?”

“Being present in each note,” he confirmed. “Writing songs is different for everyone. For me, it was about translating feelings into sound.”

Victoria listened with rapt attention. “Do you have any dreams left?” she asked suddenly.

Connor raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“I wanted to be a piano teacher,” she said quietly. “I wanted to teach kids how to make music.”

“What happened?”

“My father happened.”

“Sterlings don’t teach, Victoria. Sterlings lead.” Her impression of her father carried decades of resentment.

“Every time I sat at the piano, he’d remind me I was wasting time that could be spent learning the business.”

Connor recognized the wound beneath her words. “And now you run the business.”

“I run the business,” Victoria confirmed without pride. “60 floors of the Sterling legacy.”

The irony is not lost on Connor. He studies her profile, thinking of the moments they’ve shared, the music that has brought them together. “Do you have any dreams left?” he asks, his tone gentle.

“I’m trying to find them again,” Victoria admits, her voice barely above a whisper.

The Turning Point

Two months later, Connor stood in Central Park, watching Leo chase pigeons with the same enthusiasm he’d shown before their world had fallen apart. The guitar in Connor’s hands was the same Martin he had almost sold, returned to him through an anonymous purchase from the music store and delivered to his apartment with a simple note. “Music shouldn’t stay inside.”

As he played, the melody that emerged combined elements of the song he wrote for Sarah with fragments of Victoria’s composition, echoing Leo’s performance. Past, present, and future, woven together in harmonies that acknowledged loss while celebrating renewal.

Connor played until the last light faded, then packed his guitar and walked home with Leo, carrying Victoria’s music and the quiet hope that some bridges once built could bear the weight of two people brave enough to meet in the middle.

In the distance, the Sterling Corporation building rose into the Manhattan skyline like a monument to power and ambition. But somewhere within its glass walls, a woman sat writing songs about finding her voice. And for the first time in her adult life, the building felt less like a prison and more like a place where she was learning to be.

A New Beginning

The following week, Victoria sat in her office, reviewing quarterly reports, pausing occasionally to glance at the framed photo now displayed prominently beside her computer. Leo’s first performance at the Manhattan School of Music, the boy beaming with his guitar while Connor stood proudly beside him.

The atmosphere in the conference room buzzed with activity. Educators, program directors, community representatives, and several Sterling board members gathered for a meeting about the foundation’s initiatives.

“Good morning, everyone,” Victoria said, the room quieting respectfully. “Before we begin, I’d like to introduce our newest committee member.”

“Leo’s father?” one board member asked, surprised.

“Yes, Connor Mitchell,” Victoria confirmed. “His son Leo is one of our most promising music scholars.”

As the meeting proceeded, Connor contributed thoughtfully when appropriate, his insights clearly valued by the committee. After the meeting, Victoria and Connor remained as others filed out, the comfortable silence between them a testament to months of rebuilt trust.

“I can’t believe how much has changed,” Connor remarked, looking around the room. “You’ve really made a difference here.”

Victoria smiled, her eyes sparkling. “And I couldn’t have done it without you.”

As they left the building, Connor felt a sense of purpose he hadn’t experienced in years. Together, they were building something meaningful, bridging the gap between their worlds, and creating opportunities for children like Leo.

The future felt bright, filled with music, friendship, and the promise of love.