Chapter 7: The Weight of Submission

Elisa’s knees still itched from the carpet in Mr. Daley’s office, the memory of her collapse a splinter in her mind. But she hadn’t decided anything yet. She clung to that thought like a lifeline, but Mr. Daley’s predatory smile haunted her. In the hallways of Daley & Associates, his eyes caught hers, knowing and unyielding, as if he could see the shameful fantasies she fought to bury. Each glance was a taunt, a reminder of her moment on her knees, the heat it had sparked in her core. She told herself she was still a lawyer, still in control, but the lie felt thinner every day.

Three days later, her supervisor, Ms. Karen Wells, summoned her to her office. Karen, a stern woman in her 40s, barely looked up from her papers. “Elisa, you’re being reassigned,” she said, her tone flat. “Your high-profile cases—Thompson merger, Patel litigation, the Grayson estate—are going to other associates. You’ll handle administrative tasks now. Document review, filing, data entry. It’s temporary, I’m sure.”

Elisa’s stomach lurched. “But I’ve been performing well,” she said, her voice tight. “The Plieems case….”

“Is done,” Karen cut in, adjusting her glasses. “This comes from above. Keep your head down and do the work.”

Elisa stumbled out, her mind reeling. *From above.* Mr. Daley. This wasn’t random,it was deliberate, a chisel carving away her career. Her desk, once a command centre for legal briefs and strategy, became a purgatory of spreadsheets and photocopies. She spent hours sorting emails, labelling folders, her law degree mocking her with every mindless task. Colleagues whispered as they passed, their pity sharper than their gossip. She was falling, and Mr. Daley’s knowing glances told her he’d orchestrated it.

That afternoon, an email from Mr. Daley’s secretary, Ms. Grayson, landed in her inbox, its blank subject line a silent threat. The message was curt:

> Ms. Harper, 

> The next Servants’ Evaluation Course is six weeks from today. To prepare, you’ll need practice. Tonight, report to 1423 Oak Street, Apartment 12B, to clean Ms. Elizabeth Daley’s residence. This is an audition for your future career. Arrive at 7:00 PM sharp. Wear practical clothing and bring cleaning supplies. Do not disappoint. 

> Regards, 

> Ms. Grayson

Elisa’s heart pounded, Ms Grayson knew. How would Elisa look her in the eyes again? Her fingers frozen over the keyboard. Elizabeth, Liz, Mr. Daley’s 19-year-old daughter, a sophomore at an Ivy League school, known for her biting wit and effortless privilege. The phrase “audition for your future career” seared into her brain. She hadn’t agreed to this, hadn’t chosen servitude, but the email assumed her compliance, as if her moment on her knees had rewritten her fate. She wanted to delete it, to storm into Mr. Daley’s office and demand her cases back. But her body betrayed her, a shameful curiosity stirring—desire, need, the pull of something simpler than law. She closed her laptop, her resolve crumbling, and headed to a store to buy sponges, bleach, and a bucket, her law school diploma a distant memory.

Night One: Liz’s Apartment

Elisa stood outside Liz’s apartment, a sleek high-rise in the city’s wealthiest district. Her jeans and plain sweater felt like a costume, her cleaning supplies heavy in her arms. She buzzed the intercom, and Liz’s voice, bored and imperious, crackled through. “You’re two minutes late, lawyer girl. Move it.”

Liz opened the door, her blonde hair in a messy bun, her yoga pants and crop top screaming casual wealth. She was petite but commanding, her blue eyes—her father’s eyes—glinting with cruel amusement as she sized Elisa up. “Wow, you actually showed,” she said, smirking. “I thought Daddy was joking about his little pet lawyer. Come on, scrubber, the place is a pigsty.”

Elisa’s face burned as she stepped inside, the apartment a chaotic mix of designer furniture, spilled wine stains, and scattered takeout containers. Liz tossed her a sponge and pointed to the kitchen, where the sink overflowed with greasy dishes, pots crusted with dried sauce, and a cutting board smeared with cheese. “Start there. And don’t half-ass it, okay? You’re auditioning to be a nobody, so act like it.”

Elisa knelt by the sink, the sponge cold and rough in her hands. She scrubbed a frying pan, the grease clinging stubbornly, her mind drifting from law to the rhythm of the task. *Scrub, rinse, repeat.* It was simple, mindless, a stark contrast to the legal briefs she’d once pored over. She thought of her last case, the Patel litigation, its complex clauses and depositions. It felt distant, irrelevant, like someone else’s life. But this, scraping grease, the water soaking her sleeves, felt real, immediate. *Is this what Martha felt?* she wondered, her heart quickening. *This… freedom?*

Liz lounged on a couch, scrolling her phone, her voice a constant barb. “God, look at you, elbow-deep in my mess,” she said, laughing. “You were, what, some hotshot lawyer? And now you’re my maid? That’s pathetic. I bet you’re loving this, though. Throwing away all that potential to be a scrubber. Honestly, it suits you. You look more like a servant than a lawyer, hunched over like that.”

The words stung, each one a knife, but they also lit a shameful fire in Elisa’s core. She hated Liz’s mockery, hated the degradation, but her body responded, her thighs pressing together as she scrubbed harder. *I’m not this person,* she thought, but the sponge felt right, the act of serving a twisted relief from her crumbling career. Liz noticed, her smirk sharpening. “Keep going, Elisa. You’re a natural. Daddy’s gonna love hearing how his star associate grovels for my dirty dishes. Maybe we’ll tattoo ‘Servant 7’ on you soon, huh? Right on that pretty little neck.”

Elisa’s hands trembled, the pan slipping in her grip. She moved to the counter, wiping down surfaces streaked with coffee and crumbs, her thoughts consumed by the task. *Wipe in circles, get every spot.* She imagined herself as a servant, her law degree burned, her identity erased. The thought was horrifying, but it made her pulse race, her breath shallow. Liz’s voice cut through again. “You’re so eager, it’s sad. Were you ever good at law, or was this always your destiny? Scrubbing my counters like a good little drone?”

Elisa finished the kitchen and moved to the bathroom, the tiles grimy, the toilet stained. She knelt, spraying bleach, the chemical smell burning her nose. *Scrub the grout, check the corners.* Her mind wandered to a courtroom she’d argued in last month, her closing statement sharp and confident. Now, her world was this—tiles, stains, Liz’s laughter. And she didn’t hate it. The simplicity was intoxicating, a release from the pressure of ambition. *I’m better at this,* she thought, shame flooding her. *Better at cleaning than arguing cases.*

Liz leaned in the doorway, sipping a smoothie. “Jesus, you’re practically glowing, cleaning my toilet. What a waste of a degree. You could’ve been somebody, Elisa, but look at you—born to be a scrubber. I bet you’re wet just thinking about it, aren’t you? Pathetic.” Elisa’s face flamed, her silence a confession, and Liz laughed, sharp and cruel. “Get out when you’re done. You’re trainable, I’ll give you that.”

Elisa left at midnight, her body aching, her sweater damp with sweat and bleach. She collapsed onto her bed, her laptop open to the servitude forum. Under her pseudonym, CityStar28, she posted: “I cleaned her apartment tonight—dishes, counters, bathroom. She called me a scrubber, said I’m meant for this. I hated it, but I didn’t. It’s all I think about now—cleaning, serving, not law. Is this how it starts? Am I losing myself?” Responses flooded in. ShadowServant wrote: “You’re waking up. The tasks are your truth now. Let the old you die.” Another user, BrokenChain, added: “I was a teacher. Now I’m a servant. The shame fades when you embrace it. Keep cleaning.” Elisa read until her eyes burned, her fingers slipping beneath her waistband, chasing the high of surrender, shame and desire twisting into one.

Night Two: John and Sophia’s Penthouse

The next night, Ms. Grayson’s email sent Elisa to John Daley’s penthouse, Mr. Daley’s 25-year-old son, and his wife, Sophia. The address was in a glitzy tower, the kind where doormen wore gloves. John answered the door, a carbon copy of his father—tall, broad-shouldered, with a cruel edge to his smile. Sophia, a former model, stood beside him, her sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes scanning Elisa like prey. “The lawyer-turned-maid,” John said, chuckling. “Come on, the place is a wreck.”

The penthouse was chaos—spilled wine on the hardwood, crumpled clothes on the furniture, a kitchen sink overflowing with dishes and half-eaten takeout. Sophia handed Elisa a rag and a bottle of cleaner. “Start with the floors,” she said, her voice icy. “And don’t touch anything valuable. You’re here to clean, not think.”

Elisa dropped to her knees, the rag cold in her hands, and began scrubbing the wine stains, the wood sticky under her fingers. *Slow strokes, get the grain.* Her mind drifted from law—her last motion, a 20-page argument, felt like a dream—to the task at hand. *Check the edges, no streaks.* She thought of Martha, crawling to the Daleys, her bakery forgotten. *Was this her first step?* Elisa wondered, her heart racing. *Scrubbing floors, losing herself?* The act was humiliating, but it grounded her, each stroke a surrender to something simpler than ambition.

John and Sophia’s mockery was relentless. “Look at her, Soph,” John said, sprawled on a leather couch. “She thought she’d be arguing cases, now she’s arguing with my floor. What a fall.” Sophia laughed, circling Elisa, her heels clicking. “She’s perfect for it, though. That desperate look in her eyes—total servant material. You’re not cut out for courtrooms, honey. Stick to mopping. It’s all you’re good for now.”

Elisa’s face burned, but the words sank into her, a twisted affirmation. She moved to the kitchen, tackling the sink—plates crusted with curry, glasses smeared with lipstick. *Soak, scrub, rinse.* Her law career faded, replaced by the rhythm of cleaning. *This is easier,* she thought, shame and relief mixing. *No briefs, no deadlines, just… this.* She polished the counter, her reflection distorted in the granite, a woman she didn’t recognize. John’s voice cut through. “God, you’re pathetic, Elisa. Were you ever a lawyer, or just pretending? Look at you, slaving away for us. You love it, don’t you? Bet you’re dreaming of being ‘Servant 7’ already.”

Sophia joined in, her voice dripping with scorn. “She’s a joke, John. All that education, and for what? To clean our mess? You’re a scrubber, Elisa, nothing more. I bet you’re soaking through those cheap jeans, thinking about giving it all up.” Elisa’s hands shook, the rag slipping, her body betraying her with a pulse of arousal. She hated them, hated herself, but the task consumed her, each swipe a step away from her old life.

She finished at 1:00 AM, the penthouse gleaming, her body sore. Sophia’s parting words lingered: “Not bad, scrubber. Keep this up, and you’ll be one of John’s Daddy’s girls in no time. Maybe we’ll shave that head ourselves.” Elisa stumbled home, her forum post raw and desperate: “I cleaned their penthouse—floors, dishes, everything. They called me pathetic, said I’m only good for this. I’m a lawyer, but all I think about is cleaning. I’m scared I want this more than my career. Help.” Responses poured in. ServantHeart wrote: “The tasks are your calling. Law was a mask. Embrace the shame—it’s your strength.” Another, LostName, added: “I was a banker. Now I’m nothing, and it’s bliss. You’re close.” Elisa read, her fingers moving frantically, chasing release, her mind drowning in servitude.

The Weeks of Service

The weeks became a grueling cycle. By day, Elisa slogged through admin work, scanning documents, updating databases, her once-promising career reduced to clerical drudgery. Her colleagues’ whispers grew bolder, their respect gone. “She used to be a star,” one said, not quietly enough. Elisa’s heart sank, but her mind wandered to cleaning, sponges, bleach, the satisfaction of a spotless surface. Law felt like a foreign language, its rules and arguments slipping away.

By night, she served the Daleys. Mrs. Daley’s city pied-à-terre was next, a minimalist space with white marble floors and glass furniture. Elisa polished the floors on her hands and knees, the marble cold against her skin, her reflection a ghost in the shine. *Buff in circles, no smudges.* She thought of her last courtroom appearance, her voice strong, now silenced by the task. *This is better,* she thought, shame flooding her. *I’m good at this.* Mrs. Daley watched, her silence heavier than words, her eyes like her husband’s, knowing, predatory.

The mockery never stopped. At Liz’s apartment again, Elisa scrubbed the oven, her arms aching, grease blackening her hands. Liz leaned over, laughing. “Look at you, digging into my filth like it’s your life’s work. You’re such a loser, Elisa. All that brains, and you’re choosing this? You’re not even a person anymore, just a scrubber. Bet you’re fantasizing about Daddy’s estate, crawling for us.” Elisa’s breath hitched, her body responding despite her horror, the grease under her nails a badge of her fall.

At John and Sophia’s, she cleaned their bathroom, the shower tiles caked with soap scum. *Spray, scrub, rinse.* Her mind was blank, law forgotten, only the task remaining. Sophia’s voice was sharp. “You’re a disgrace, Elisa. A lawyer, reduced to this? You’re nothing but a maid now, and you love it. I can see it in your face, you’re meant to be on your knees.” John added, “She’s a natural, Soph. Bet she’s counting the days till she’s ‘Servant 7,’ bald and branded.” Elisa’s hands shook, her arousal a betrayal, the tiles gleaming as her identity faded.

Each night, the forum was her refuge. She posted obsessively, her words raw: “I cleaned her oven today, grease everywhere. She said I’m not a person, just a scrubber. I’m losing my job, my self, but cleaning feels right. I think about it all day, sponges, tiles, not cases. Am I gone?” Responses were a chorus of affirmation. ShadowServant wrote: “You’re finding your place. The tasks are your purpose. Let law die.” BrokenChain added: “I scrubbed floors for a year before my course. It broke me, then built me. You’re almost there.” A new user, SilentVow, shared: “I was a doctor. Now I’m a servant, and it’s peace. The course will strip you, but you’ll thank it.” Elisa read, her body trembling, her fingers seeking release, the forum’s words a siren call to surrender.

The Eve of the Course

Six weeks passed, and the Servants’ Evaluation Course loomed. Elisa stood in her apartment, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her dark hair was loose, her green eyes hollow, her lawyer’s suits replaced by a plain t-shirt and jeans. She packed a small bag, underwear, toothbrush, a change of clothes, as Ms. Grayson’s email had instructed. Her laptop was open to the forum, a final post typed: “I’m going to the course tomorrow. I cleaned for them every night, kitchens, bathrooms, floors. They mocked me, said I’m nothing, and I believe them. Law is gone. I don’t know who I’ll be after this, but I’m ready to find out.”

She hesitated, her finger hovering over the send button. Mr. Daley’s smile, Liz’s taunts, Martha’s story, the forum’s voices—they swirled in her mind, pulling her toward a future she both feared and craved. Cleaning had consumed her, each task a step away from her old self, each insult a truth she couldn’t deny. She closed her eyes, took a breath, and clicked send. Then she grabbed her bag and headed for the door, ready to face the course and whatever it would make of her.