Michael Owen’s lips were turning blue.
The youngest billionaire in West Africa lay collapsed on the marble floor of the boardroom, his body still, his breath gone. Seven men in tailored suits stood frozen, their eyes wide, their mouths slightly agape. No one moved. No one spoke. No one helped.
Except her.
Katherina dropped her mop. The metallic clang echoed through the silence like a gunshot. For three months, she had been invisible in that glass tower—just the cleaner. No one knew her name. No one looked her in the eye. She was a shadow in the background, only noticed when something wasn’t clean.
But now, she was the only one moving.
She pushed past the stunned executives and knelt beside Michael, her heart pounding so loudly it drowned out the murmurs. She placed two fingers on his neck. No pulse. Her hands trembled, but her mind raced back to a free first aid class she’d once attended—only because they were giving away bread at the end.
“When everyone panics,” the instructor had said, “someone has to act.”
Katherina tilted Michael’s head back, pinched his nose, and gave two breaths. Then she laced her fingers together and began chest compressions.
“Come on,” she whispered. “Please…”
“Get her away from him!” someone shouted.
“She’s just the cleaner!” another barked.
But she didn’t stop.
Thirty compressions. Two breaths. Thirty compressions.
Then—he gasped.
