Clean Hands Dirty Hearts

Start Reading

My girlfriend was a severe germophobe.

Because of this, throughout our three years together, I never touched cologne, threw away all my scented skincare, and stripped the bed to wash the sheets every single day.

Yet, whenever Joyce looked at me, her eyes remained as cold and clinical as if she were inspecting a stain.

Then came the storm.

The power went out, the elevator stalled, and we were trapped in a metal box for two suffocating hours. My asthma flared. I collapsed onto the floor, my chest heaving as I trembled, desperately clawing at the hem of her trousers.

"Joyce... please... my inhaler..."

She looked down at me, her face twisting into a mask of pure disgust as she kicked my hand away.

She turned her back on me, taking off her designer trench coat and draping it gently over the shoulders of the intern standing beside hera young man drenched in expensive, suffocating cologne.

"Its okay," she whispered to him, her voice softer than Id ever heard it. "Lean on me. Ive got you."

She pulled him flush against her chest, her palm resting flat against his back, murmuring sweet, steady promises into his hair.

And my inhaler was right there, sitting in the designer handbag resting against her ankle.

That was the moment I realized she didnt have a phobia of germs. She was just disgusted by me.

When the firefighters finally pried the elevator doors open, I could barely draw enough breath to speak. My throat felt like it was lined with glass.

A paramedic squeezed into the cramped space, immediately pressing an oxygen mask over my face. The building manager, clutching her walkie-talkie, looked around frantically. "Whos the emergency contact? Whos his family?"

Joyce didnt look up.

As they lifted me onto the gurney, I tilted my head to the side. I saw her arms wrapped tightly around Cody. He was burying his face in the crook of her neck, his hands clutching her silk blouse, wrinkling the expensive fabric.

"Ms. Adler," Cody whimpered, his voice trembling. "Is this because of me? Did I make Mr. Ross have an attack?"

Joyce stroked his hair, her voice a soothing hum. "No, Cody. Its not your fault. Hes always had trouble regulating his emotions."

The cold steel of the gurney rail bit into my palm.

The paramedic called out, "Wheres his medication? Does the patient have an inhaler?"

With what little strength I had left, I pointed a trembling finger toward the handbag resting in the corner of the elevator.

Joyce glanced at it, then at the paramedic. "He keeps too much clutter in there. Im not comfortable digging through it."

The paramedic stared at her for a second, then stopped asking.

By the time my best friend, Dan, arrived, I was already hooked up to an IV in the emergency room.

The doctor held out a clipboard at the reception window, gesturing for Joyce to sign. She stood a few feet back, her hands crossed over her chest.

"Im not his family."

The nurse looked down at the charts, then back up at her, frowning. "But the emergency contact on his phone says 'Girlfriend.'"

Joyces lips thinned into a hard, straight line. "Were just friends."

Dan, who had just rushed through the automatic doors, stopped dead in his tracks. He pointed a finger directly at her face. "Just friends? Joyce, hes lived with you for three years. He walked away from his own life for you, and you dismiss him with 'just friends'?"

Joyce pinched the bridge of her nose, her expression tight with annoyance. "This is a hospital, Dan. Dont start a scene. Cody is traumatized from the elevator. I need to take him home."

As she turned to leave, Cody was still wiping tears from his eyes. He clutched his stomach, complaining that the smell of hospital bleach was making him nauseous.

Joyce wrapped an arm around his waist, guiding him out without looking back once.

I lay in the sterile light of the ER, the needle cold in the back of my hand, and slowly curled my body into a tight, quiet ball.

I didn't wake up until the following morning.

Dan was asleep, slumped over the edge of the mattress, his eyes red and swollen.

I reached for my phone on the bedside table. There was a single text from Joyce, sent at midnight:

Cody cried all night.

I stared at the screen, my throat dry and tight.

Dan stirred, saw what I was looking at, and snatched the phone out of my hands. "Don't look at that garbage. You're going to give yourself a stroke."

I didnt say anything. I couldn't.

For three years, I had purged my life of every scent. I used to love high-end hand creams and botanical body oils; my clothes always carried a faint, warm trace of cedarwood. But the moment Joyce smelled it, she would press her hands to her temples, claiming it triggered her sensory issues. She told me she had a clinical aversion to scents and bodily clutter, so I stopped. I washed my hands until they were raw before I ever dared to touch her.

Yet, in that elevator, Cody was wearing a cologne so strong it made my lungs seizeand she had held him like he was the only thing keeping her anchored to the earth.

Dan unlocked his phone and slid it across the sheets. "Someone leaked this on the company Slack."

It was a photo. Joyce was standing by the passenger side of her car outside the hospital, and Cody was sitting inside, wrapped in her tailored wool coat. On his wrist, he was wearing her antique sandalwood bead bracelet.

I had touched those beads once, a year ago. Joyces face had turned instantly dark, and she had coldly told me never to touch her personal items again.

I pushed the phone back to Dan. It wasn't that she had a phobia of touch.

It was just that she didn't want me touching her.

On the day I was discharged, Dan offered to take me back to his place.

I shook my head. "I have to go back to the apartment. My things are still there."

He looked at me, searched my face for a moment, and chose not to push. I knew what he was thinkinghe was terrified I was making up excuses to crawl back to her.

But when I unlocked the door to the apartment, the first thing I saw was Cody. He was standing by the dining table, holding a mug of steaming ginger tea.

He was wearing my slippers.

When he saw me, he flinched, taking a small, performative step backward. "Mr. Ross... you're back."

Joyce walked out of the study, a folder in her hand. She took one look at me standing in the entryway and frowned. "You just got out of the hospital. Go take a shower immediately. Don't bring public transport bacteria into the living room."

I stood perfectly still on the doormat.

Cody took a step forward, his voice dripping with soft, apologetic sweetness. "Please don't be upset, Mr. Ross. I caught a fever after getting soaked in the rain yesterday. Ms. Adler was just worried about me being alone in my apartment, so she let me crash here for the night."

I stared down at his feet. At my slippers. The ones I had spent hours picking out to match the hardwood floors.

Cody followed my gaze, his eyes widening in faux panic as he lifted his foot. "Oh, I'm so sorry! I didn't realize these were yours. There was only one pair of men's shoes in the closet..."

Joyce stepped between us, shielding him from my sight. "Its just a pair of slippers, Elliott. Cody is sick."

I looked past her shoulder, straight into her cold, beautiful eyes. "In the elevator... my inhaler was right at your feet. Why didn't you give it to me?"

She looked away, her jaw tightening. "It was chaotic. It was Cody's first time dealing with something like that. He was hyperventilating, Elliott. I couldn't just leave him to panic."

My chest felt hollow, the phantom ache of the asthma attack returning. "And me? I couldn't breathe. I begged you, Joyce."

There was a brief, heavy silence. Joyce adjusted her collar. "You've had asthma for years. You know how to manage your attacks. You know how to self-soothe. He doesn't."

"And your phobia?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "He was wearing enough cologne to scent a hotel lobby. How did you manage to hold him so close?"

Cody began to dab at his eyes with his sleeve. "Mr. Ross, please don't yell. It's my fault. I grew up in an orphanageenclosed spaces are my absolute worst trigger. Ms. Adler was only trying to keep me grounded. Please don't fight because of me."

He shrunk back, practically hiding behind her shoulder.

Joyce's eyes hardened as she looked at me. "Elliott, must you always paint everything in the ugliest, most dramatic light?"

I looked at herreally looked at herand felt nothing but a vast, empty exhaustion.

"Joyce, let's end this. We're done."

The apartment went completely quiet.

Cody's hand tightened around his mug, spilling a few drops of ginger tea onto the marble tabletop.

Joyce set her folder down with a sharp click. "Are you serious?"

She took two slow, deliberate steps toward me.

"Your design studios payroll next month is entirely dependent on Adler Corp's final milestone payment. You want to call it quits now? You want to drag your entire staff down with you just to throw a tantrum?"

I didn't answer.

Seeing my silence, her tone softened slightly, turning into that familiar, condescending maternal warmth she used to control me. "Go cool off. Cody is just an intern. I look after him because he has no safety net. You're being paranoid."

Cody kept his head low. "I really envy you, Mr. Ross. You have your own studio, and you've had Ms. Adler by your side for three years. I have nothing."

I walked past them, ignoring them both, and went into the bedroom to pack.

But when I opened the closet, my hands froze in midair.

My custom-blended cedarwood lotions, my imported essential oils, my ceramic diffuserthe few things I had kept tucked away in the backhad all been swept into a heavy black trash bag.

Cody appeared at the bedroom door, leaning against the frame. "I thought those scents were what made Ms. Adler so uncomfortable, so I did a little deep cleaning for her. I hope you don't mind."

I turned to him, my voice dropping to a dangerous register. "Who gave you permission to touch my things?"

He shrank back, his lower lip trembling.

Joyce stepped into the room, her voice sharp. "Elliott! What is wrong with you? Why are you taking your anger out on him? He was only trying to help me."

The next morning, I had to carry my design portfolio to Adler Corp for our quarterly review.

Cody was already sitting in the conference room, right next to Joyce. He was lazily flipping through the sample fabric sheets of my new collection.

"Mr. Ross," Cody said, looking up with a look of pure, innocent concern. "Don't you think this design feels a bit... cheap? It doesn't really carry the premium weight that Adler Corps brand demands, does it?"

The room went quiet. Every executive at the table turned to look at me.

I opened my laptop, pulling up the technical specs to explain the weave density, the linen-silk blend, and the cost-efficiency.

Before I could finish, Joyce walked in. She didn't even look at my presentation. She simply closed my physical portfolio folder with a dull thud.

"Redo it."

I gripped the edge of my seat. "Joyce, this is the third revision. The production timeline"

Cody suddenly let out a soft, wet cough, covering his mouth. "I'm so sorry... Mr. Ross, do you still have hospital disinfectant on your clothes? The smell is really hitting my throat."

Joyce immediately gestured to her assistant. "Open the windows."

Then she turned her cold eyes to me. "Go sit at the other end of the table."

A few junior designers nearby ducked their heads, whispering and snickering behind their hands.

I stood up, pulled out the chair at the absolute far end of the long mahogany table, and sat down.

During the break, Cody stood up to pour some coffee. As he walked past the display rack holding my main prototype gown, his wrist gave a sudden, awkward jerk. The dark, hot liquid splashed entirely across the delicate ivory bodice.

"Oh my god! I'm so sorry! My hand slipped, the mug was so hot..."

I rushed over, grabbing the fabric, but the dark stain had already soaked deep into the open-weave silk linen. The gown was completely ruined.

Joyce immediately grabbed Cody's wrist, inspecting his skin. Then she looked up at me, her voice commanding. "Apologize."

I froze. "What?"

"His hand is red, Elliott. Apologize to him."

I looked at the ruined gownthe work of three monthsand then at her. My lips remained pressed together. I didn't move.

Joyce pushed her chair back, her face devoid of any warmth. "Adler Corp is suspending all contracts with your studio, effective immediately."

"The remaining projects will be handled internally by our brand department. Cody will assist with the transition."

When I got back to my studio, the group chat was already blowing up. My designers were panicked about the frozen milestone payments. I muted my phone, pulled out my ledger, and began calculating how much of my personal savings I would need to drain to pay out their severance.

That night, Joyce came back to the apartment. She tossed her car keys onto the entryway table.

"Give the original sketch files of your Alabaster line to Cody."

I paused, looking up from my desk. "What did you just say?"

"Hes entering the National Emerging Designer Showcase next month, and he needs a cohesive portfolio," she said, her tone matter-of-fact. "Your Alabaster sketches are fully developed. Let him use them. It's just a loan."

My pen slipped from my fingers.

The Alabaster line wasn't just a design. The delicate, interlocking ivy vine pattern in the sketches was adapted from a vintage wool suit my father had left me before he died. When he passed, the suit was too worn to wear, so I had carefully unstitched the lining, preserved the pattern, and poured it into my sketches. It was my studios masterpiece, and my father's only legacy.

"No," I said, my voice steady. "He's not touching it."

Joyce closed my ledger for me. "Elliott, Cody is just starting out. He needs this break. You already have an established studio. And besides, once we're married, half of Adler's resources will be yours anyway. What does it hurt to help him?"

"Help him?" I stood up, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. "You want me to hand over my father's legacy and my original work so he can take the credit?"

Her phone buzzed. It was a voice note from Cody.

When she pressed play, his sniffling voice filled the quiet room: Ms. Adler, please don't pressure Mr. Ross. I don't want to make things hard for him. I just wanted to prove that I could stand on my own two feet without relying on your charity...

Joyce locked her phone, her eyes darkening. "Hes already willing to back out, and you're still being this petty?"

"If you love him so much, buy him his own designs," I said, my chest heaving. "Don't use my life to build his career."

She stared at me for a long time, shaking her head. "You used to be so generous, Elliott. You've become so ugly."

I didnt argue. I went to the bathroom to wash my face. But when I came back out, the drawer to my desk was half-open.

The leather binder containing my original sketches was gone.

I ran down the stairs, bursting into the underground parking garage just as Joyces sedan was pulling out of her space. I threw myself in front of her hood.

The car screeched to a halt. The driver's side window rolled down an inch. I shoved my hand into the gap, gripping the glass. "Give it back, Joyce. Give it back right now."

She kept her eyes fixed on the windshield. "He'll return it as soon as the showcase is over. Don't make a scene, Elliott. Have some dignity."

The window rolled up, forcing me to rip my hand away as she drove off.

I called a cab and drove straight to the convention center.

When I snuck past security into the backstage area of the showcase, I found Cody surrounded by reporters. He was cradling my leather binder to his chest, talking animatedly about his "deep, personal connection to heritage textiles."

The crowd was nodding, charmed by his youthful vulnerability.

I pushed through the reporters. "Cody. Give me the binder."

The chatter stopped.

Codys face fell instantly into that familiar, tearful pout. "Mr. Ross... I know you don't like me, but this is a professional event. Can we please not do this here?"

I reached out to grab the edge of the binder.

He held onto it, twisting his body away. "Please, don't take it! I didn't steal anything!"

Two security guards began moving toward us.

"There is a piece of my father's suit in that binder," I said, my voice shaking with rage. "Give it back to me. Now."

Cody looked at me, a brief, sharp flash of malice crossing his eyes. Then, he let go.

The binder slipped from his hands, falling straight into a deep plastic drum of dark indigo dye used for the live-dyeing demonstration next to the booth.

The clasp popped open on impact. The vintage silk liningmy fathers fabricslipped out, sinking instantly into the dark, murky liquid.

I dropped to my knees, plunging my bare arms into the cold, chemical dye, desperately feeling around the bottom of the drum. My skin stained a deep, bruised blue.

Cody leaned down, his voice dropping to a whisper that only I could hear. "I know it was your dad's. But old trash needs to make way for the new, Elliott."

I spun around, my fingers dripping dark blue ink.

That was when Joyce walked into the room.

I was kneeling on the floor, frantically wiping the ruined, indigo-soaked silk against my shirt, trying to clean it, but only making the stain worse.

Cody was already weeping. "Ms. Adler, I swear I didn't mean to. Mr. Ross ran in and grabbed the binder so hard... my wrist hit the table, and it just fell in..."

He held out his wrist, showing her a faint pink mark.

Joyce looked at my stained hands, then at Cody's face. She stepped forward, grabbing my shoulder. "Apologize, Elliott."

"He threw it in on purpose," I whispered, holding the ruined fabric against my chest.

"Elliott, enough!" she snapped, her voice cold and public. "This is a national showcase. Stop embarrassing yourself."

I stared up at her. "Check the security cameras. Right there. They're pointing directly at this booth."

Cody immediately panicked. "No, please, don't. There are so many VIPs here today. If this gets out, it will ruin the reputation of the whole showcase. I'll just withdraw."

Joyce put an arm around Cody's shoulders. "You're too soft, Cody."

She turned to the event coordinator standing nearby. "Delete the footage from the last ten minutes. We don't want any internet rumors affecting the brand."

The coordinator hesitated. "Ms. Adler, thats against our security protocol"

"I'll take full responsibility."

I watched the coordinator nod. My nails bit so deep into my palms that they drew blood, mixing with the blue dye on my skin.

The security guards took me by the arms, dragging me out of the venue. The head of security warned me that if I kept causing trouble, they would blacklist my studio from every major trade show in the country.

Half an hour later, I received an official email: Adler Corp had officially revoked my studio's credit from all past collaborative designs.

I stood outside the glass doors of the convention center, watching the giant LED screen on the facade.

Cody was on stage, holding the trophy for "Most Promising New Designer."

Joyce was sitting in the front row, clapping gracefully.

I pressed the wet, stained piece of my fathers suit against my chest, turned around, and walked into the rain.

That night, a text came from Joyce:

The fabric is already ruined. Stop obsessing over it. Ill buy you a brand-new studio space to make up for it.

I set my phone face down on the kitchen island. She truly believed that everything in this world had a price tag, and that money could buy my silence.

I spent the next three hours at my desk. I printed out the breakup agreement, followed by the formal termination of all business relations between my studio and Adler Corp.

By the next afternoon, I had drained my personal savings account to pay out maximum severance packages to all my designers. I dissolved the studio, shook hands with my team, and sent them home.

For the first time in my life, I had absolutely nothing left to lose.

I took the ruined, indigo-dyed piece of silk and placed it directly on top of the signed breakup papers on the kitchen counter.

Dan was waiting for me downstairs in his car. As I threw my single suitcase into the trunk, he looked at me. "Are you really leaving the city, Elliott?"

I nodded. "If I stay here any longer, I won't recognize myself."

On the way to the airport, my phone buzzed continuously. Joyce had called me seventeen times.

I turned off the screen. Just before boarding my flight, I sent her one last message:

Joyce, were done.