There was zero emotion in the words. No anger, no sarcasm, no fear, no defensiveness. It was a completely neutral statement of utility, delivered like a man reading a weather report.
He turned and continued walking toward the utility sink in the back corridor.
Behind him, Preston let out a loud, bark-like laugh, turning to Cole and Brett. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
Thomas kept pushing his bucket down the hallway. He didn't look back. He didn't clench his fists.
He had learned decades ago in the dark, brutal places of the world that personal anger was an extraordinarily expensive commodity. It clouded operational judgment, ruined timing, and left a man exposed to variables he couldn't control.
He had already paid far too much for anger in his past life. He had no intention of purchasing any more today.
By four o'clock, the afternoon sun was setting behind the high-rise glass towers outside, casting long, sharp shadows across the gym floor. Most of the executive members had showered, dressed, and departed for dinner reservations.
Thomas was finishing his end-of-shift routine. He loaded a large, heavy-duty rolling canvas laundry cart with dozens of wet, discarded gym towels from the locker room and began pushing it through the back hallway toward the loading dock doors.
As he rounded the corner near the reception area, a figure stepped directly into his path.
Preston Harrington stood there, blocking the narrow hallway. He was dressed in expensive street clothing—a designer leather jacket, tailored jeans, and fresh white sneakers. Cole and Brett stood a few feet behind him near the glass front door, leaning against the counter.
At the front desk, Dmitri was staring intently at an open ledger, struggling to balance the month’s register.
Thomas brought the heavy laundry cart to a stop three feet in front of Preston.
“Excuse me,” Thomas said softly.
Preston didn't move. He rested his right hand heavily on the front rim of the canvas laundry cart, preventing Thomas from pushing it forward.
“You never really apologized earlier,” Preston said, his tone casual, almost playful, yet laced with malicious intent.
Dmitri looked up from his register, his brow furrowing with concern. “Preston, come on. Let it go. The floor’s cleaned up.”
“I’m not talking to you, Dmitri,” Preston said, never breaking eye contact with Thomas. “I’m talking to the help. He bumped into me in the cage, gave me a sarcastic little answer, and walked away like he owns the place.”
Thomas looked down at the pile of damp towels in the cart. “I need to take these towels to the laundry facility before my shift ends.”
Preston tilted his head, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Sure thing, Chief. As soon as you say, ‘Excuse me, Mr. Harrington. May I please pass?’”
Behind him, Cole let out a soft laugh. “Classy, Pres.”
Thomas raised his head.
For the first time all day, he looked directly into Preston Harrington’s eyes.
Not quickly. Not aggressively. Not with the frantic posture of a man preparing for a fight. He looked at him completely—the way a master engineer looks at a structural flaw in a bridge, or a veteran surgeon looks at a dangerous tumor.
Thomas’s pale blue eyes were utterly still. There was no fear in them. No anger. No ego. No submission. There was nothing in those eyes that Preston’s life experience allowed him to recognize or understand.
“I’m not going to say that,” Thomas said.
The smug smile on Preston’s face instantly vanished. The absolute coldness in the older man’s voice struck him like a splash of freezing water, unsettling him far more than an angry outburst would have.
Feeling his authority challenged in front of his friends, Preston’s face flushed red. He stepped forward and shoved the heavy canvas laundry cart with all his strength.
The cart rolled violently backward, crashing hard against the concrete wall, scattering damp towels across the polished floor.
“You think you’re funny, old man?” Preston snarled, closing the distance between them and stepping directly into Thomas’s personal space. He raised a finger, poking Thomas hard in the center of his chest. “You’re a glorified janitor who sweeps up my sweat. You don't talk back to me.”