The Italian leather chair in Damon Castellaniano’s executive suite cost more than most people’s cars. Immani Banks didn’t know that when her exhausted body collapsed into it at 2:47 a.m. She’d been scrubbing floors for 16 hours straight across three different jobs. Her knees achd, her hands were raw from bleach.

Her eyes burned with an exhaustion she couldn’t fight anymore. Just 5 minutes, she told herself as her eyelids drooped. Nobody comes to the office this late anyway. She was wrong. At 3:15 a.m., Damon Castellano’s private elevator opened with a soft chime that Ammani didn’t hear. His 6’3 frame stepped into the darkness of his executive office, illuminated only by the Chicago skyline glowing through floor toseeiling windows.

He flipped the light switch and there she was, a woman asleep in his chair behind his desk, her cleaning cart abandoned. beside her, buckets and mops scattered like she’d just given up on life. Damon’s jaw clenched so tight his teeth hurt. His head of security, a former marine named Burton, appeared at his shoulder.

Sir, I’ll remove her immediately. No. Damon’s voice was cold as winter in Alaska. Let her sleep. Burton blinked in confusion. Everyone who worked for Damon Castellaniano knew about his obsessive need for order, for control. Four, cleanliness. The man wore gloves just to shake hands at business meetings. He had his office deep cleaned twice daily.

He’d once fired an executive for leaving a coffee ring on a conference table, and now he wanted to let some random cleaning woman sleep in his personal space. “Sir,” Burton asked carefully. Damon’s dark eyes never left Amani’s sleeping form as he picked up off his phone. Get me the number for Morrison Cleaning Services, the owner’s personal cell. Yes, I know what time it is.

I don’t care. 5 minutes. He hung up and continued watching Ammani sleep, his mind already calculating. Then he made another call. Burton, bring me a stick. A stick, sir? A ruler. Something sharp and pointy. Something long. Burton knew better than to question him. Yes, sir. Two minutes later, Burton returned with a long wooden ruler.

 

Damon took it, his face a mask of cold fury. “Everyone out!” Damon commanded, his voice low and dangerous. “Now!” The security team exchanged confused looks, but filed into the elevator without another word. The doors closed with a soft whisper, leaving Damon alone with the intruder, who dared to violate his sanctuary. He slowly pulled on a pair of black leather gloves, the kind he wore when contamination was unavoidable.

His movements were precise, controlled, and terrifying. He approached the chair, Ruler, held like a weapon. Immani slept on, completely unaware that the most powerful man in Chicago was standing over her, preparing to wake her in a way she would never forget. What is Damon about to do with that stick? and how did a cleaning lady end up asleep in the office of a billionaire who controls everything and everyone around him? This story will take you on a journey you won’t forget.

Hit that subscribe button right now and turn on notifications because what happens next is going to shock you to your core. Now, let’s go back to where this whole nightmare began. 3 days earlier, the smell of disinfectant burned Ammani’s nose as she sat beside Mama Loretta’s hospital bed. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor, the only sound in the sterile room.

Mama Loretta was unconscious, had been for two days now, her body too weak to fight the cancer that was eating it from the inside out. A doctor in blue scrubs entered quietly. Miss Banks. Immani stood up. Yes, how is she? Dr. Smith’s expression was kind but serious. Her condition is deteriorating. The experimental treatment is working but slowly.

We need to perform the surgery to remove the primary tumor now or we risk losing the window of opportunity we’ve created. When? How soon? Within the week. But Dr. Smith hesitated. There’s the issue of the outstanding balance. The hospital requires at least half the total cost upfront before they’ll schedule the surgery. Half? Immani’s stomach dropped.

How much is half? At least $140,000. $140,000. Immani felt the room tilt. She made $12 an hour at the diner, 15 at the cleaning company. Even working 80 hours a week, she’d be lucky to clear 2,000 a month after rent and bills. I don’t have that kind of money, Imani whispered, the words barely audible. I understand, but without the surgery.

I’m sorry, Miss Banks. We need to see some progress on the payment plan by the end of the week. Dr. Barces Smith left and Ammani sank back into her chair, the weight of $140,000 crushing her chest. Immani’s best friend, Kesha, found her 20 minutes later in the hospital chapel, which was empty except for Immani and an elderly woman praying in Spanish in the front row. There you are.

Kesha slid into the pew beside Ammani, balancing two cups of terrible hospital. Nurse Deborah said you looked like you were about to pass out. What happened? $140,000.What? That’s what I need. Half of Mama’s bills to get her the surgery by the end of the week. Ammani took the coffee gratefully, letting the warmth seep into her cold hands.

I make maybe 2,000 a month. You do the math. Kesha let out a low whistle. Jesus, I don’t think even he has that kind of money to spare right now. Despite everything, Kesha cracked a small smile at that. Girl, you better not let Sister Pette hear you talking like that. She’ll have the whole church praying over you for blasphemy.

Immani almost laughed, but it came out as a sob instead. Kesha immediately wrapped her arms around her, and Ammani let herself break down properly. The ugly kind of crying where you can’t breathe and your nose runs and you sound like a wounded animal. I can’t lose her, Kesha. Immani gasped between sobs. She’s all I got.

If mama dies, your mama’s not going to die, Kesha said firmly. Loretta Banks is the strongest woman I know. She survived growing up in the rough parts of the city. She survived raising you by herself after your daddy left. She survived working two jobs for 20 years. She’s going to survive this, too. But not if I can’t pay for her surgery.

Then we figure out how to pay for it. Kesha pulled back and looked Ammani dead in the eye. How many jobs you working right now? Three. Morning shift at the diner, afternoon cleaning offices downtown, overnight cleaning at the airport. That’s not enough. You need more. Immani let out a bitter laugh. More? Kesha? I already sleep like 4 hours a day.

When exactly am I supposed to fit in another job? I don’t know, but you’re going to have to figure it out. Kesha wasn’t being cruel. She was being real, which was what Imani needed. Look, my cousin Chenise works for this fancy cleaning company that services all the high-rise buildings in the loop. Morrison services or something.

They pay better than what you’re making now, and they’re always hiring because the work is hard and most people quit. How much better? 25 an hour plus overtime. And girl, there’s always overtime. These rich folks want their offices cleaned at weird hours, so you end up working double shifts all the time. Immani’s mind was already calculating.

25 an hour, overtime rates. If she could get 40 hours a week there, plus keep the diner job. Can you text me Chenise’s number? Already doing it. Kesha pulled out her phone. But Imani, I’m serious about what I said. You need to take care of yourself, too. Promise that you’ll at least eat one real meal a day and take your vitamins. Deal.

Deal. They shook on it like they were 10 years old again, making pinky promises about sharing snacks and keeping secrets. Back when the biggest problem in Ammani’s life was whether she’d get new shoes before school started. Now she was staring down $140,000 debt and her mother’s potential death sentence. Whatever it takes, Ammani repeated to herself as she headed upstairs to visit her mama before her diner shift started.

Whatever it takes. 3 weeks later, Ammani started working for Morrison Cleaning Services. The orientation was held in a dingy office building that smelled like mildew and desperation. Immani sat in a folding chair between a woman who kept coughing without covering her mouth and a teenage boy who couldn’t have been more than 16, probably lying about his age to get work.

At the front of the room, a heavy set man in his 50s with sweat stains under his arms gestured at a PowerPoint presentation that looked like it was made in 1997. “Morrison Services provides premium cleaning for Chicago’s elite business community,” he droned. “Our clients expect excellence. They expect discretion. They expect invisibility.

” “The coughing woman raised her hand.” “What’s that mean, invisibility? It means you do your job without being noticed. You clean after hours. You don’t touch anything personal. You don’t snoop. You don’t steal. You don’t exist to them except as the reason their office is spotless when they arrive in the morning.

Understand? Everyone nodded. Good. Now, let’s talk about our most important client. Mr. Morrison clicked to the next slide and a massive skyscraper appeared on the screen. The Castellano building. 68 floors of office space, luxury condos, and retail. We service the entire building, but floors 60 through 68 are special. Why? Someone asked.

Because that’s where he works. Mr. Morrison’s voice took on an almost reverent tone. Damon Castayano, CEO of Castellano Enterprises, one of the richest men in America. He owns this building and about 50 others across the country. Ommani leaned forward, studying the building on the screen. She’d seen it before. Everyone in Chicago had.

It was impossible to miss a gleaming tower of steel and glass that dominated the skyline like a middle finger to poverty. “Mr. Castayaniano is particular,” Mr. Morrison continued carefully. “He has very specific requirements for how his personal floors are maintained. Everything must be perfect.” And I mean perfect.You miss a spot, you’re fired.

You move something on his desk, you’re fired. You’re late, you’re fired. You breathe wrong, you’re probably fired. Nervous laughter rippled through the room. Mr. Morrison didn’t laugh. I’m not joking. In the past year, I’ve lost 14 employees to Mr. Castellano’s standards. He calls me personally to report infractions.

So, if you’re assigned to the Castellano floors, you better be ready to work harder than you’ve ever worked in your life. Questions? Emani raised her hand. How much does the Castellano assignment pay? Mr. Morrison smiled for the first time. $30 an hour plus overtime plus a completion bonus if you last 6 months without being fired.

The room went silent. $30 an hour was life-changing money for people like them. How do we get that assignment? Ammani asked. You don’t get it. You survive long enough for me to trust you and then maybe maybe I’ll put you on the Castellana rotation. Mr. Morrison’s smile faded. But let me be clear, that job will eat you alive.

Damon Castelliano is a perfectionist with OCD and control issues that would make a military general look relaxed. He will make your life hell. He will find every flaw. He will. I’ll take it. Emani interrupted. Everyone turned to stare at her. Mr. Morrison raised an eyebrow. Excuse me. I’ll take the Castellano assignment.

Whenever you’re ready to trust me, I want it. Immani’s voice was steady, confident. Inside, her heart was pounding, but she couldn’t let that show. I need the money. I’ll work harder than anyone. I won’t complain. I won’t quit. Mr. Morrison studied her for a long moment. You got family problems, medical bills, debt? Mani nodded. Everyone who volunteers for Castellano duty has something desperate driving them, Mr. Morrison said quietly.

It’s the only reason anyone’s willing to put up with him. All right, Miss Banks. Immani Banks. Miss Banks, you start on the regular rotation tomorrow. Night shift, floors 10 through 20. You do good work. Don’t give me problems. Show up on time every day for 2 weeks. Then we’ll talk about Castellaniano. Thank you, sir.

After the orientation, Immani walked out into the October Chicago wind, feeling something she hadn’t felt in months. Hope. $30 an hour. If she could get that Castellaniano job and keep her diner shifts, if she could work enough overtime, if she could just hold it together for a few months, she could save her mama.

Whatever it takes, she thought again as she headed for the bus stop. Whatever it takes. Immi lasted exactly 13 days before Mr. Morrison called her into his office. “You’re good,” he said without preamble. “Fast, thorough, no complaints from any of the building managers.” Chenise was right about you. Ammani stood in front of his desk, still in her cleaning uniform, smelling like industrial cleaner and exhaustion. “Thank you, sir.

Don’t thank me yet.” Mr. Morrison leaned back in his chair, which creaked under his weight. “I’m short staffed on the Castayano floors. Three people quit last week. One of them actually cried when she turned in her resignation. Said she’d rather be unemployed than deal with his insanity for one more day. I won’t quit.

Ammani said, “You don’t know that?” “Yes, I do.” Ammani met his eyes directly. “My mama has stage 4 cancer. Her surgery costs more money than I’ll make in 3 years. I need this job, Mr. Morrison. I won’t quit. I won’t mess up. I’ll do whatever it takes.” Mr. Morrison sighed heavily. You’re going to regret those words. But all right.

Starting tonight, you’re on Castayaniano duty, floors 60 through 68. You work from midnight to 8:00 a.m. The floors have to be pristine before the first employees arrive at 7:30. What about my diner job? That’s your problem to figure out. Castellano is overnight. You want the money, you make it work.

Immani did quick math in her head. Diner shift ended at 11:00 p.m. If she took the express bus, she could make it to the Castayano building by midnight. Work until 8:00 a.m., sleep until 2:00 p.m., back to the diner by 3 p.m. 4 hours of sleep. She’d survived on less during exam weeks at community college before she’d had to drop out.

I can make it work, Ammani said. Then congratulations, Miss Banks. Mr. Morrison slid a thick binder across his desk. This is the Castayano manual. It contains every single requirement for cleaning his floors. Read it, memorize it, live it. Your first shift is tonight at midnight. Don’t be late. At 11:47 p.m., Immani stood in front of the Castellano building, neck craned back, trying to see the top.

It was even more intimidating up close. The glass panels reflected the city lights like a mirror, making the whole structure seem to glow with contained power. The lobby visible through the windows was all marble and modern art and the kind of wealth Immani had only ever seen in movies. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and walked through the revolving door.

“Cleaning crew?” the security guard at the desk asked without looking up. “Yes, sir.Immani Banks. First night on Castellaniano floors.” Now, the guard looked up and something like sympathy crossed his face. He was black, maybe in his 60s, with gray in his hair and kind eyes. First night, Lord have mercy. You know what you’re getting into, young lady.

I read the manual. Reading it and living it are two different things. The guard, his name tag said, Walter, pulled out a tablet and had Ammani sign in. Mr. Castellano is particular about everything, and I mean everything. Last girl who worked his floors got fired for leaving the vacuum cleaner cord coiled the wrong direction.

You’re joking. I wish I was. Walter handed her a badge and a key card. This gets you elevator access to floors 60 and above. Service elevator is around the corner. You’ll be working alone up there. Mr. Castellano doesn’t like multiple people in his space. Alone. All nine floors. All nine floors. You got eight hours. better get started.

By 2:30 a.m., Immani understood why three people had quit last week. The Castellaniano floors were immaculate to begin with. It was like cleaning a space that was already clean, searching for invisible dirt that might offend a man who apparently saw imperfection that normal humans couldn’t perceive. But it wasn’t just the cleaning that was exhausting.

It was the pressure. Every surface Imani touched felt important. The conference table on the 63rd floor was probably worth more than her childhood home. The modern art on the walls looked like something from a museum. The carpet was so thick and perfect she felt guilty stepping on it with her discount sneakers.

And everywhere, everywhere there were signs of Damon Castayano’s obsessive control. Books arranged by height and color. Coffee mugs in the breakroom placed handle out evenly spaced. Even the pens on the desks were aligned parallel to the desk edges. Immani found herself holding her breath as she cleaned, terrified of disturbing the perfect order of this perfect world.

By the time she reached the 68th floor, Damon Castellano’s personal executive suite, she was running behind schedule and exhausted in her bones. The executive suite was like something out of a movie. Floor to ceiling windows overlooking Lake Michigan. A desk the size of her apartment’s kitchen made from dark wood that probably cost more than her car.

Real art on the walls, not prints, but actual paintings with texture and signatures. And that chair, that beautiful soft Italian leather chair behind the massive desk. Immani knew she shouldn’t. The manual explicitly said never to sit in client furniture, but her feet were screaming, her back was aching, and that chair looked so comfortable.

Just for a second, she told herself, just to rest my legs while I catch my breath. She sank into the chair, and it was like sitting on a cloud. The leather was butter soft, the cushioning perfect, the height adjusted exactly right. Immani closed her eyes. Just one minute. Then back to work. She woke up to something poking her arm.

Not a finger, a ruler. Wake up. The voice was deep, cold, and very, very angry. Immani’s eyes flew open, and there he was. He had to be the most gorgeous man she had ever set her eye on. The stranger stood over her, 6’3 of controlled fury in a three-piece suit that probably cost more than 3 months of her salary.

His skin was deep brown, his hair cut close, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. But it was his eyes that made Ammani’s blood run cold. dark brown, almost black, and absolutely merciless. Immani tried to scramble out of the chair, but her exhausted body didn’t cooperate. She half fell, half stumbled, catching herself on the desk.

I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. You fell asleep in my chair in my office. Each word was precisely articulated like he was speaking to someone very stupid. Do you have any idea how many health codes you just violated? Her brain shook. Wait, his office? This man was Damon Castellano? She had imagined him to be just a grumpy old man.

Looked like she only got the former right. I’m sorry, Mr. Castellano. I was just Get out, please. I get out. Damon’s voice didn’t rise in volume, but the command in it made Ammani flinch. I’m calling Morrison right now. You’re fired. Security will escort you from the building. Panic seized Deman’s chest. No, no, no, no. She couldn’t get fired. Not now.

Not when Mama’s surgery was scheduled for next week, and she was already short on the payment plan installment. Please, Mr. Castayano. Ammani’s voice cracked. Please don’t fire me. I need this job. My mother is sick. She has cancer, and I need the money for her surgery. I’ll work harder. I’ll never sit down again.

I’ll Everyone has a sob story. Damon interrupted coldly. He walked around to his desk, giving Ammani a wide birth, she noticed, and reached for his phone. “Yours doesn’t interest me.” Immani did something stupid. Then something desperate. She lunged forward and grabbed his wrist before he could pick up the phone. “Please,” she begged.

Please, just the world exploded, not with pain or disgust, but with a jolt of pure electricity that shot up Immani’s arm and straight through her entire body. It was like touching a live wire, but instead of hurting, it sent pleasant tingles everywhere, a warm, shocking current that made her gasp and let go instantly.

Damon recoiled like she’d burned him. His whole body jerked backward with such force that his elbow caught the edge of the desk. The phone went flying. It arked through the air as if in slow motion, tumbling end over end and smashed against the marble floor with a sound like a gunshot. The screen shattered into a thousand pieces.

For a moment, there was absolute silence. Immani stared at the destroyed phone, her mind reeling from the strange, pleasant shock she just felt. Damon stared at his bare wrist where she’d touched him, his face twisted in something between shock and something else entirely. Something that looked almost like astonishment.

“That phone,” Damon said very quietly, his eyes still fixed on his wrist. Cost $80,000. Immani’s world tilted. 80? What? Custommade, encrypted, one of a kind. and you just destroyed it.” Damon finally looked up at her and there was something strange in his gaze now. Something calculating. You’re going to pay for it. Every penny.

I don’t have $80,000. You will work it off? Damon’s voice was cold, but his eyes kept flicking back to his wrist. “Starting tonight?” “Work it off how?” Ammani asked, her mind still spinning from that strange electric sensation. I have a chef, two housekeepers, and two maintenance staff who handle everything in my home,” Damon said, his voice business-like, but his eyes still distant.

“I’m going to give them all extended vacation. You’re going to replace them.” Immani’s mouth fell open. “One person can’t do the work of five people. Then you’ll work very hard.” Damon pulled out another phone. Apparently, he had backups and started typing. You’ll arrive at my penthouse every mo

rning at 6:00 a.m. You’ll cook, clean, run errands, and handle every aspect of my household until 6:00 p.m. 12 hours a day, 6 days a week. That’s No, Imani interrupted, her pride finally kicking in. No, I’m not going to be your servant. I’d rather go to jail. She turned and ran out of the office, not waiting to be escorted. She didn’t look back.

She just ran, her heart pounding, her mind reeling from that electric touch and the crazy offer and the sheer arrogance of this man who thought he could buy her life. She ran all the way to the service elevator and didn’t stop until she was out of the building and on the street, hailing a cab to the hospital, Imani burst into Cook County Hospital at 4:12 a.m.

, her chest heaving, her mind a mess, she ran to Mama Loretta’s room and found a team of doctors and nurses surrounding the bed. Her heart stopped. What’s happening? What’s wrong? Dr. Smith turned, his face grim. Miss Banks, your mother’s condition has worsened. She’s gone into cardiac arrest. We’ve revived her, but she’s critical.

We need to perform emergency surgery now if she has any chance of survival. Then do it, Ammani cried. We can’t, Dr. Smith said gently. Not without the payment. The hospital requires at least half the total cost before we can proceed with a procedure this risky. That’s $140,000, Miss Banks. We need it now.

Just as he said it, two large men in dark suits appeared behind her. Burton, Damon’s head of security and another guard. Miss Banks, Burton said, his voice cold. Mr. Castellano requires your presence immediately. No, Imani cried, gesturing to her mother’s room. I’m not going anywhere. My mother is dying. She’ll die anyway if you don’t come with us,” the other guard said, grabbing her arm. Just then, Burton’s phone rang.

He answered it. “Sir.” Ammani could hear Damon’s voice, faint but clear on the other end. “Is that the doctor?” Put him on speaker. Burton tapped the screen. Dr. Smith’s voice filled the small space. “I’m sorry. Without the funds, there’s nothing more we can do. We can’t pay it.” Damon’s voice cut through the speaker, sharp and commanding.

All of it, the full balance. Transfer the funds now. I want her in surgery within the hour. Burton looked at Ammani, his expression unreadable. Sir, are you sure the total is? I know what the total is. Do it. Burton hung up and made a call. Jenkins, transfer $300,000 to Cook County Hospital. Patient Loretta Banks.

Market is payment in full now. Dr. Smith stared, his mouth open. Who? Who is this? Someone who believes in paying his debts. Damon’s voice came through the phone again, directed at Ammani this time. And collecting what he’s owed. You refused my offer, Miss Banks. So now the terms have changed. Your mother’s medical bills are paid in full, but you now owe me $380,000.

At $30 an hour, working for me 12 hours a day, 6 days a week. That will take you approximately 2 years to pay off. Immi felt the blood drain from her face. You You can’t. I already did. Damon’s voicewas cold. Final. You start at my penthouse tomorrow morning. 6:00 a.m. sharp. Don’t be late. The line went dead. Dr. Smith stared at Ammani.

I I don’t understand what’s going on here, but the funds have just cleared. Your mother is being prepped for surgery now. She has a chance. Imani looked through the window into the operating room where they were wheeling her mother away. A chance. That’s all she’d ever wanted.

And the price was 2 years of her life. If you think Damon just played Ammani like a fiddle and she’s trapped for good, comment she’s stuck. If you think there’s more Damon’s obsession to get her to work for him, comment it’s not about the phone. Either way, smash that like button and subscribe and let’s see what happens when Ammani moves into Damon’s house.

The address Damon had texted Ammani was in the Gold Coast, one of the most expensive neighborhoods in Chicago. Immani stood outside the sleek glass building at 5:52 a.m., staring up at the tower that overlooked Lake Michigan like it owned the view. She’d taken three buses to get here because she couldn’t afford an Uber and now she stood in the private lobby with a key card in her shaking hand.

The elevator was private. It went directly to the penthouse. No stops in between. You can do this. Ammani told herself. It’s just 2 years. 2 years of cooking and cleaning for a control freak billionaire and then mom is healthy and you’re free and this is all just a bad memory. She swiped the key card. The elevator doors opened.

Immani stepped inside and the doors closed behind her with a soft whisper that sounded like a trap snapping shut. The penthouse was exactly what Ammani expected and somehow worse. Everything was white and chrome and glass. The furniture looked like it belonged in a museum. The art on the walls was definitely real and definitely worth more than Ammani would make in her entire lifetime.

Floor to ceiling windows showed a view of Lake Michigan that was so beautiful it hurt. And it was absolutely perfectly obsessively clean. Not a speck of dust, not a single item out of place. Even the throw pillows on the couch were arranged at precise angles like someone had measured them with a protractor.

You’re 8 minutes early. Immani jumped and spun around. Damon stood in a doorway she hadn’t noticed. dressed in workout clothes, expensive athletic wear that showed off his broad shoulders and muscular frame. He had a towel around his neck and a water bottle in his hand. He must have just finished exercising. He looked good. Really good.

The kind of good that made Immi’s mouth go dry despite the fact that she was supposed to hate him. I thought early was better than late, Ammani said, trying to keep her voice steady. Early is unpredictable. unpredictable disrupts my schedule. Damon’s dark eyes swept over her, assessing, but I suppose it shows initiative.

There’s a schedule on the kitchen counter. Follow it exactly. I’ll be in my office working. Don’t disturb me unless the building is on fire. He disappeared through another door before Ammani could respond. Immani stood in the massive living room alone and let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Two years, she reminded herself.

You can survive anything for 2 years. The schedule was typed, printed, and laminated. Of course, it was daily schedule. Household staff. 6 a.m. Prepare breakfast. Egg white omelette with spinach and tomatoes. No cheese. One slice whole grain toast. Dry. Black coffee. French press. Exactly 4 minutes brewing time.

Fresh orange juice squeezed that morning. Not from carton. 7 a.m. serve breakfast. Place in dining room on eastern placemat. Utensils exactly 1 in from plate edge. Coffee cup handle at 3:00 position. 7 to 30 a.m. Clean kitchen. Wash all dishes immediately. Wipe counters with antibacterial solution. Mop floor. The list went on for pages.

Every minute of Ammani’s 12-hour day was accounted for. scheduled, controlled, just like everything else in Damon Castayano’s life. Immani found the kitchen, which was bigger than her entire apartment, and got to work. The omelette was a disaster. Not burned down the kitchen disaster like some people might manage, but definitely not the perfect fluffy creation the schedule seemed to demand.

The eggs were a little rubbery. The vegetables weren’t distributed evenly, and when Ammani tried to flip it, the whole thing broke apart into scrambled egg chunks. “Damn it,” Ammani muttered, staring at the mess in the pan. She scooped it onto a plate anyway, arranged it as nicely as she could, and added the toast and coffee and orange juice, which had taken her 20 minutes to squeeze by hand.

Because, of course, Damon didn’t have an electric juicer. He had some fancy manual press that required actual effort. At exactly 700 a.m., Immani carried the tray to the dining room. Damon was already seated, reading something on his tablet, wearing a fresh suit that probably cost more than Ammani’s car. He didn’t look upwhen she entered.

Immani set the plate down on the placemat, eastern side, just like the schedule said. She positioned the utensils exactly 1 in from the edge. She turned the coffee cup so the handle was at 3:00. Damon glanced at the food. His expression didn’t change, but Immani saw his jaw tighten slightly. “This omelet is scrambled,” he said quietly.

“I know I’m not a chef. I did my best.” “Your best resulted in scrambled eggs when I requested an omelette.” “Then maybe you should lower your expectations,” Immani shot back before she could stop herself. Damon’s eyes flicked up to meet hers, and for a moment, Ammani thought she’d just made a terrible mistake.

This man owned her for the next two years. He could make her life hell if he wanted to. But instead of anger, something that looked almost like amusement flickered in his dark eyes. “Lower my expectations,” he repeated slowly, like he was testing out a foreign concept. “No one has ever suggested that before. Maybe they should have.

” Damon picked up his fork and took a bite of the scrambled omelette thing. He chewed slowly, thoughtfully, then swallowed. “It’s adequate,” he said finally. “Tomorrow, watch a video on how to make a proper omelette. YouTube has thousands of tutorials. Pick one and learn.” “Yes, sir,” Immani said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“And Miss Banks?” Damon’s voice stopped her as she turned to leave. “I don’t require you to call me sir. Damon is fine. Immani looked back at him, surprised. You want me to call you by your first name? We’ll be working closely together for 2 years. Formality seems unnecessary. He took a sip of his coffee and Immani saw the tiniest hint of satisfaction cross his face.

The coffee is perfect, by the way. However you made it, do it exactly the same tomorrow. It was probably the closest thing to a compliment Damon Castellano had ever given anyone. Immani didn’t know whether to be pleased or annoyed. She settled for confused. The rest of the morning was a blur of tasks that never seemed to end. Clean the kitchen.

Wipe down all surfaces. Organize the pantry alphabetically because, of course, everything had to be alphabetical. Vacuum the living room in straight lines. Dust the bookshelves without moving any books out of their precise order. By noon, Ammani’s back was aching and her hands smelled like cleaning solution. The schedule said she had a 30inut lunch break, so she collapsed onto one of the kitchen stools and pulled out the sandwich she’d brought from home.

She was halfway through it when she felt someone watching her. Immani looked up. Damon stood in the kitchen doorway, staring at her sandwich like it was a foreign object. “Is that gas station ham?” he asked, his tone somewhere between fascinated and horrified. Yes, it’s cheap and it fills me up. Problem? I have a refrigerator full of organic freerange artisal ingredients and you’re eating gas station ham.

Your fancy ingredients are for your meals, not mine. You work for me. You eat what’s in my kitchen. Damon walked to the refrigerator and started pulling things out. There’s smoked salmon, pushcuto, fresh mozzarella, arugula. I’m fine with my sandwich. You’re not fine. You’re eating processed meat. That’s probably 50% sodium and 50% chemicals.

Damon was already assembling something on a plate. Fresh bread, fancy cheese, vegetables that looked like they cost more per pound than Ammani made per hour. He slid the plate across the counter to her. Eat that instead. Immani stared at the beautiful gourmet sandwich, then at Damon, then back at the sandwich.

Why do you care what I eat? Because if you get sick from food poisoning, you can’t work. And if you can’t work, my household falls apart. Damon’s voice was logical, practical, completely emotionless. It’s in my best interest to keep you healthy. But as he turned to leave, Immani saw something in his expression that didn’t match his cold words.

Something that looked almost like concern. No, impossible. Damon Castellano didn’t care about people. He cared about control and order and getting what he wanted. And what he wanted was a healthy servant who could make a proper omelette. That was all. By 2 p.m., Immani was cleaning Damon’s bedroom. And that’s when things got weird.

The bedroom was exactly what she expected. Enormous bed with white linens tucked with military precision. Nightstands with perfectly aligned lamps and books. Closet full of suits organized by color. It was squeaky clean, and Ammani felt like she was wasting her time cleaning a room that definitely didn’t need cleaning.

Ammani was pretending to dust the already shiny nightstand when she heard footsteps behind her. She turned and found Damon standing in the doorway, watching her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. “Do you need something?” Immani asked. “No, just checking on your progress.” “I’m dusting.” “Not exactly complicated.

” Nevertheless, Damon stepped into the room, moving closer. Immani went back todusting, very aware of him standing just a few feet away, watching her every move. She reached for the lamp on the far side of the nightstand, stretching across the surface. And that’s when Damon moved.

He stepped forward quickly, his hand reaching out like he was going to touch her shoulder. But at the last second, he pulled back, his fingers just inches from her shirt. Immani spun around. What are you doing? Nothing. I thought you were going to knock over the lamp. Damon’s voice was smooth, but Emani saw something flash in his eyes.

Disappointment? Frustration? I wasn’t going to knock it over. Of course, my mistake. Damon turned and walked out, leaving Ammani standing there confused and a little creeped out. What was that about? It happened again at 400 p.m. Ammani was in the living room organizing the bookshelf when she felt Damon’s presence behind her.

She glanced over her shoulder and caught him reaching toward her, his hand extended like he was about to tap her on the back. But the moment she turned, he dropped his hand and stepped back. “Yes?” Ammani asked, her voice suspicious. Now, I was just going to tell you that you’re organizing those books incorrectly. They’re in alphabetical order by author, just like the schedule says.

Yes, but within each author, they should be organized by publication date, oldest to newest. That wasn’t in the schedule. It’s implied. How is that implied? By the fact that organization follows a logical hierarchy. Damon’s voice was getting tighter, more controlled. author then chronology. It’s obvious. It’s not obvious. It’s obsessive.

They stared at each other for a long moment. Then Damon said quietly, “Rorganize them, please.” And walked away. Immani stood there watching him disappear into his office, and something clicked in her mind. He wasn’t actually upset about the books. He’d wanted an excuse to get close to her. But why? If you’re as confused as Ammani, drop a comment right now saying, “What on earth is he doing?” Like and hit subscribe because the answer is coming and it’s going to blow your mind.

That night, after Ammani’s shift ended at 6:00 p.m., she went straight to the hospital to visit Mama Loretta. The surgery had been successful. Mama was still unconscious, still on a ventilator, but Dr. Smith said her vitals were stable, and the tumor removal had gone better than expected. She’s a fighter. Dr.

Smith told Emani with a tired smile. The next 72 hours are critical, but I’m optimistic. Immani sat beside her mother’s bed and held her hand, the one without all the IV lines, and tried not to cry. “I got a job, Mama,” Immani whispered. “It’s weird, and the boss is intense, and I’m pretty sure he’s secretly crazy, but it pays well.

Well enough to cover all your medical bills. You’re going to get better, and then we’re going to go home, and everything’s going to be okay. Mama’s chest rose and fell with mechanical precision. Immani stayed until visiting hours ended, then took three buses back to her tiny apartment and collapsed into bed. Tomorrow, she had to wake up at 4:30 a.m.

to make it to Damon’s penthouse by 6:00. This was her life now for the next 2 years. One week later. You’re humming. Ammani looked up from where she was folding laundry. Damon’s shirts perfectly pressed and folded according to a diagram he’d given her. What? You’ve been humming for the past 3 days. Same song every time.

Damon stood in the doorway of the laundry room, coffee cup in hand, watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite read. What is it? Mani felt her face heat up. She hadn’t realized she’d been humming out loud. Just an old gospel song my mama used to sing when I was little. Your mother is recovering well.

I assume you you know about that. I paid the bills. I get the medical updates. Damon’s voice was matter of fact. Dr. Smith says she’s responding to treatment better than expected. Something warm bloomed in Ammani’s chest. He was keeping track of Mama’s recovery. Thank you, Emani said quietly. For paying for everything.

I know I’m working it off, but still. Thank you. Damon looked uncomfortable with the gratitude. It was a business transaction, nothing more. But as he turned to leave, Immani caught him flexing his right hand, the wrist she’d grabbed that night in his office, like he was remembering something. The weird, almost touching thing kept happening.

Every day, multiple times a day, Immani would catch Damon nearby, his hand reaching toward her like he was going to tap her shoulder or brush her arm or make some kind of contact. But he always pulled back at the last second. Always found some excuse for why he was close. You missed a spot on the counter.

That book is crooked. Your hair was about to catch on the stove flame. The excuses were getting more ridiculous, and Ammani was getting more confused. Finally, on day nine, she confronted him. Why do you keep doing that? Damon was in the kitchen pretending to inspect the cleanliness of the refrigeratorshelves while Ammani made his afternoon smoothie.

He’d been hovering for 10 minutes, clearly working up the nerve to something. Doing what? Damon asked, not looking at her, getting close to me, reaching for me, then pulling away. Immani sat down the blender and crossed her arms. If you have a problem with my work, just say it. Stop dancing around, whatever this is.

I don’t have a problem with your work. Then what’s going on? Damon was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “When you touched my wrist that night in my office, did you feel anything?” The question caught Ammani completely offg guard. “Feel anything? You mean besides panic that I just destroyed an $80,000 phone? Yes, besides that.

Damon finally looked at her and his dark eyes were intense searching. When your skin touched mine, did you feel anything unusual? Immani thought back to that moment, the electric shock, the warm tingles that had spread through her whole body. She’d assumed it was just adrenaline, fear, exhaustion. I I’m not sure what you mean, Imani said carefully, heat rising to her face.

Damon studied her face for another moment, then seemed to come to some decision. He held out his hand. Touch me again. What? Your hand on my wrist like you did before. Damon’s voice was calm, clinical, like he was proposing a science experiment. I want to test something. Test what? Just do it, please.

Immani stared at his outstretched hand. This was insane. Her boss was asking her to touch him. The same boss who wore gloves to shake hands with other people who sanitized everything constantly, who couldn’t handle contamination. “You have OCD,” Immani said slowly. “You don’t let people touch you.” “I know.” “So why?” “Because I need to know if it happens again.

” Damon’s voice was tight now, frustrated. Just touch me, Emani. Please. The use of her first name made something flutter in Ammani’s chest. Slowly, carefully, she reached out and placed her hand on his wrist. The effect was immediate. Electricity shot through both of them. That same warm, pleasant shock that made Ammani gasp and Damon’s eyes go wide.

But this time, Damon didn’t pull away. He stood perfectly still, staring at Ammani’s hand on his skin, his breathing coming faster. You feel it? Damon whispered. “Don’t you?” “Yes,” Imani breathed. “I feel it.” They stood like that for several seconds, hand on Damon’s wrist, electricity crackling between them, neither one willing to break the connection.

Finally, Immani pulled her hand back, her heart pounding. “What is that?” she asked. Why does that happen? I don’t know. Damon was staring at his wrist like it held the secrets of the universe. With everyone else, when they touch me, I feel contaminated, disgusted, like I need to scrub my skin raw. But with you, with me? What? Damon looked up at her, and the vulnerability in his eyes made Ammani’s breath catch.

With you, I feel alive. That night, Ammani couldn’t sleep. She kept replaying the moment in the kitchen. The way Damon had looked at her, the electricity between them with you, I feel alive. What did that mean? And why did Ammani’s traitor’s heart keep skipping beats when she thought about it? This man owned her for 2 years.

He’d trapped her in a debt she couldn’t escape. He was controlling and obsessive and impossible to please. She shouldn’t feel anything for him except resentment. But when he looked at her with those vulnerable eyes, Immani rolled over and groaned into her pillow. “Don’t be stupid,” she told herself. “He’s your boss, your captor, basically.

Whatever this electricity thing is, it doesn’t mean anything.” But even as she thought it, Immani knew she was lying to herself. Two weeks later, the day everything changed started normally enough. Ammani arrived at the penthouse at 6:00 a.m., made breakfast, a perfect omelet this time. She’d watched 17 YouTube videos, and started her cleaning routine. At 2 p.m.

, the building manager called to inform Damon that the quarterly inspection was scheduled for that afternoon. Damon’s face went pale when he got the call. Today, he said into the phone, his voice tight. You’re certain it has to be today? Immani watched from the kitchen where she was preparing his afternoon snack. She’d never seen Damon rattled before.

His control was always perfect, his composure always intact. But right now, he looked genuinely panicked. Fine, 2:30. Yes, I understand. Damon hung up and immediately started pacing, his hands flexing and unflexing at his sides. Is everything okay? Immi asked carefully. Building inspection.

They check all the penthouse units quarterly for safety violations, maintenance issues. Damon’s pacing got faster. They’re coming in 2 hours. Okay. And that’s a problem because because the bedroom isn’t clean. Ammani blinked. I cleaned the bedroom this morning. It’s spotless. You don’t understand. Damon ran his hand over his hair, messing it up in a way Ammani had never seen.

I had an episode last night. A bad one. The bedroom isIt’s not presentable. An episode. My PTSD. I have nightmares sometimes. When they’re bad, I Damon trailed off, his jaw clenching. Just go look. Immani walked to the bedroom and opened the door and stopped dead. The room looked like a tornado had hit it. The bed was destroyed.

Blankets twisted and half on the floor. Pillows scattered. sheets pulled loose from the corners. Books had been knocked off the nightstand. There was a broken glass on the floor. Even the curtains were half torn from their rods. This wasn’t just a messy room. This was evidence of someone having a complete breakdown. Oh my god, Imani whispered.

Damon appeared behind her and she could hear the shame in his voice. I told you it was bad. What happened? I had a nightmare about something from the past. Damon’s voice was flat, emotionless, the way people sound when they’re talking about trauma they’ve had to relive a thousand times. When I woke up, I was disoriented.

I couldn’t remember where I was. I thought I was back in the burning house and I was trying to get out. And he gestured helplessly at the destruction. Immani turned to look at him and for the first time since she’d met him, Damon Castellaniano looked small, vulnerable, human. “How long do we have before the inspectors get here?” Immani asked. “An hour and 45 minutes.

” “Then we better get started.” They worked together in intense silence. Immani stripped the bed and remade it with fresh linens while Damon picked up the broken glass and cleaned up the water. She straightened the curtains while he reorganized the books. She vacuumed while he wiped down every surface. At one point, they both reached for the same pillow. Their hands touched.

That familiar electricity shot through them both, but neither one pulled away. They just stood there, hands touching, eyes locked, something heavy and intense passing between them. Thank you, Damon said quietly. For not asking questions, for just helping. You’re welcome. The moment stretched between them, charged with something neither of them was ready to name.

Then Damon’s phone buzzed with a reminder. 30 minutes until the inspection. They broke apart and got back to work. The bedroom was perfect by the time the building inspectors arrived. Two people, a middle-aged white woman with a clipboard and a younger Latino man with a tablet, showed up at exactly 2:30 p.m. “Afternoon,” the woman said with a professional smile.

“I’m Janet Harris, building management. This is my colleague, Carlos Reyes. We’re here for the quarterly inspection. Is Mr. Castellano available?” “He’s in a meeting,” Immani lied smoothly because Damon had specifically told her to handle this without disturbing him. I’m Emani Banks, his household manager. I can show you around.

The inspection went smoothly. Janet and Carlos checked the smoke detectors, tested the water pressure, examined the HVAC vents. Everything was perfect because, of course, it was. This was Damon’s space, and nothing was ever less than perfect. When they got to the bedroom, Immani held her breath. Janet walked around checking windows, testing outlets, making notes on her clipboard.

Everything looks great in here, she said finally. Mr. Castellano maintains his property beautifully. Ammani let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. After the inspectors left, Immani found Damon in his office staring at his computer screen without actually seeing it. “They’re gone,” Ammani said from the doorway.

Everything passed inspection. Damon’s shoulders sagged with relief. Thank you for covering, for cleaning, for He turned to look at her. For not making me feel like a freak about the bedroom. You’re not a freak. I destroyed my own room in the middle of the night because I thought I was trapped in a fire from 13 years ago. That’s pretty much the definition of a freak.

Immani walked into the office and sat down in the chair across from his desk, something she’d never done before. It felt presumptuous. But right now, Damon didn’t look like a powerful billionaire CEO. He looked like a broken man who needed someone to see him. “Tell me about the fire,” Ammani said quietly. “Please,” she added as an afterthought.

Damon was silent for so long that Ammani thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then he started talking. “I was 8 years old,” Damon said, his voice distant. My dad worked long hours, so it was usually just me and my little sister Arya. She was six. My mom worked evenings, so we were alone a lot. He paused, and Ammani saw his hands trembling slightly.

I was a reckless kid, wild, never listened, never followed rules. My dad used to say I had too much energy and not enough sense. Damon’s laugh was bitter. He was right. What happened? I found my dad’s lighter. I’d been told a thousand times not to play with fire, but I was eight and stupid and thought I knew better. Damon’s voice was getting tighter now, more strained.

I was in my bedroom lighting matches, watching them burn. It was fascinating. The way the flamemoved, the heat, the power of it. Immani could see where this was going, but she stayed quiet, letting him tell it. One of the matches fell onto my bedspread. It caught. I tried to put it out, but it spread so fast.

Within seconds, the whole bed was on fire. Then the curtains, then the walls. Damon’s breathing was getting faster. I ran to get Arya. I thought we could get out together, but the smoke was so thick and the heat was so intense, and I was just a kid, and I didn’t know what to do. Damon. My dad came home early. He heard us screaming.

He ran into the house and got us out. Damon’s voice broke. But then he went back for our pet. It was a kitten that we had just acquired a month. It was so precious to Arya and I. Immani felt tears burning in her eyes. The house started collapsing while he was inside. We heard him screaming. We heard. Damon stopped, unable to continue for a moment.

When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper. Arya ran back toward the house. She was trying to save him. I tried to grab her, but I was too slow. The front wall collapsed on her. Oh my god. My dad died in the fire. Arya died 3 hours later in the hospital. My mom Damon’s hands were shaking badly now. My mom had a complete mental breakdown. She couldn’t look at me.

Couldn’t stand to be in the same room with me. I’d killed her husband and her daughter. Destroyed her entire world. It was an accident. You were a child. It doesn’t matter. Damon’s voice was harsh. I caused it. My recklessness, my stupidity, my complete inability to follow simple rules. So, my mom signed over custody to my uncle, my dad’s estranged brother, who I’d met maybe twice.

He was a billionaire already made his fortune in tech. Did you ever see your mom again? Once at the funeral. She looked at me like I was a monster, like I’d personally murdered her family. I’ve never forgotten that look. Damon’s eyes were distant, reliving that moment. My uncle raised me, gave me everything money could buy, sent me to the best schools, left me his entire fortune when he died 5 years ago.

But he never let me forget what I’d done, what I’d destroyed. Immani’s heart was breaking for this man who’d been carrying this guilt for almost 25 years. “Is that why you have OCD?” Ammani asked gently. The need for control. The psychiatrists say it’s a trauma response. I lost control once and it destroyed everything. Now I can’t tolerate even the smallest chaos.

Everything has to be perfect, ordered, clean, safe. Damon’s laugh was hollow. The OCD is my punishment, my prison, and I deserve it. That’s not true. It is true. I killed two people, Imani, because I couldn’t follow one simple rule. Damon finally looked at her and his eyes were full of self-loathing. So, yes, I deserve to live like this in a sterile cage of my own making.

It’s the least I can do. Imani stood up and walked around the desk. Damon watched her wearily like he wasn’t sure what she was going to do. She held out her hand. What are you doing? Damon asked. Give me your hand, Imani. Just do it. Slowly, Damon placed his hand in hers. The thrilling sensation was there, just like always.

But this time, Immani didn’t let it distract her. She squeezed his hand gently and said, “You were 8 years old, a child. What happened was a tragic accident, but it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t murder anyone. You didn’t destroy anything on purpose. You were just a kid who made a mistake. You don’t understand. I understand that you’ve been punishing yourself for 24 years for something that wasn’t your fault.

I understand that your mom was grieving and in pain and she shouldn’t have looked at you that way. I understand that your uncle should have gotten you therapy instead of just throwing money at you. Ammani’s voice was firm. And I understand that living in this perfect prison isn’t honoring your father and sister.

It’s just slowly killing you. Damon’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. I can’t let go of the control. If I do, you won’t burn down the world. You’ll just start living in it again. They stood like that for a long moment, hands clasped, something profound passing between them. Then Damon pulled his hand away gently and said, “Thank you for listening.

You’re welcome.” Imani turned to leave, but Damon’s voice stopped her. “Immani, tomorrow is Sunday, your day off. Would you?” He hesitated, like he wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence. “Would you mind if I came with you to visit your mother?” Immani turned back, surprised. “You want to come to the hospital? I know I have issues with hospitals, germs, contamination, all of that, but I’d like to meet the woman who raised someone like you. if that’s okay.

Something warm bloomed in Ammani’s chest. Yeah, she said softly. That would be okay. If you think Damon and Ammani are falling for each other and you need to see what happens next, comment fall in love already. Hit that like button if your heart is itching for these two broken people finding each other andkeep watching because this episode is going to take you on an emotional roller coaster that ends in the most beautiful way possible.

Sunday morning arrived cool and clear. The kind of Chicago autumn day that made the city look almost magical. Immani stood outside Cook County Hospital at 9:00 a.m. checking her phone for the third time. Damon had texted 20 minutes ago. On my way. Traffic is heavy. She still couldn’t quite believe he was actually coming.

Damon Castayano, germaphobe billionaire with a hospital phobia, voluntarily going into the place he found most disgusting for her. A sleek black car pulled up to the curb and Damon emerged from the back seat. Immani’s breath caught. He looked good. Really good. He’d dressed down, or what counted as dressed down for him, in dark jeans, a gray Henley that showed off his muscular frame, and a leather jacket that probably cost more than Ammani’s entire wardrobe.

But it was his face that made Ammani’s heart skip. He looked nervous, vulnerable, human. “Hey,” Damon said, stopping a few feet away from her. “Hey, yourself.” Ommani noticed he was carrying a small bag. “What’s that?” supplies. Damon opened the bag to reveal hand sanitizer, disinfectant wipes, disposable gloves, and a small spray bottle of something that probably killed every germ known to mankind.

I’m going into a hospital. I need to be prepared. Immani wanted to make fun of him, but the fact that he was doing this at all, facing one of his biggest fears just to meet her mother, made her throat tight. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” Immani said softly. I know how hard this is for you. I want to do this.

Damon met her eyes. I want to meet the woman who raised someone strong enough to stand up to me. Something warm bloomed in Ammani’s chest. She’s still pretty out of it from the medication. She might not even wake up. That’s okay. I just want to be there with you. The words hung between them, heavy with meaning.

Neither of them was ready to examine too closely. Okay, Imani said finally, but if you need to leave at any point, just say the word. I’ll be fine. He wasn’t fine. Damon made it exactly 17 steps into the hospital before his breathing got shallow. “You okay?” Ammani asked, watching him eye the hand sanitizer dispenser on the wall like it might attack him. “Fine,” Damon said tightly.

He pulled out his own sanitizer and used it liberally, then snapped on a pair of disposable gloves. just fine. They got on the elevator with three other people. Damon immediately pressed himself into the corner, trying to minimize contact with any of them. His jaw was clenched so tight, Imani could see the muscle jumping.

When a nurse with a clipboard accidentally brushed against his arm, Damon flinched so hard he nearly hit the wall. “Sorry,” the nurse said cheerfully, not noticing his distress. Damon didn’t respond. He just stood there rigid. Immani reached out and touched his hand, the small patch of skin between his glove and his jacket sleeve.

Damon’s eyes met hers, and she saw the panic receding slightly. “You’re doing great,” Ammani whispered. “I’m having a panic attack in an elevator.” “But you’re still here. That’s what counts.” Damon’s fingers curled slightly, almost like he wanted to hold her hand properly, but the elevator dinged and the doors opened. They made it to Mama Loretta’s room without Damon Bolting, which Ammani counted as a victory. Mama Loretta was awake.

For the first time since the surgery, her eyes were open and alert. And when she saw Immani, her face lit up with a smile that made Ammani’s heart sore. “Baby girl,” Mama said, her voice from the breathing tube they’d removed yesterday. “Come here.” Ammani rushed to her mother’s bedside and carefully hugged her, trying not to disturb any of the IV lines. Mama, you’re awake.

How do you feel? Like I got hit by a truck, but I’m alive. Mama’s eyes shifted to Damon, who was standing awkwardly by the door, clearly trying to touch as few surfaces as possible. And who’s this handsome man you brought with you? Immani felt her face heat. Mama, this is Damon, my my boss.

Your boss,” Mama’s eyes sharpened despite her weakened state. “The one who paid my medical bills?” “Yes, ma’am,” Damon said, stepping forward carefully. He didn’t extend his hand, couldn’t with his glove phobia, but he nodded respectfully. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mrs. Banks. Your daughter speaks very highly of you.” Does she now? Mama studied Damon with an intensity that made Ammani nervous.

Loretta Banks might be recovering from major surgery, but her mama radar was still fully operational. And how exactly does my daughter’s boss end up paying $300,000 in medical bills? Oh no, mama. I told you I got a new job. A job that pays $300,000 upfront for a girl with no college degree. Mama’s eyes never left Damon.

That’s not a job, baby. That’s something else entirely. Damon, to his credit, didn’t flinch. Your daughter is working off the debt. She’s serving as my household managerfor the next two years at an hourly rate that will cover the medical expenses. 2 years of servitude for my medical bills. Mama’s voice was flat. So, you bought my daughter. I didn’t buy.

You trapped her in a contract she couldn’t refuse because the alternative was letting me die. Mama’s voice was getting stronger now, fueled by righteous anger. That’s not generosity, Mr. Castillano. That’s coercion. The room fell silent. Immani had never heard anyone speak to Damon like that. Most people were too intimidated by his wealth and power, but Loretta Banks had spent 20 years raising a daughter on her own while working two jobs and fighting poverty.

A billionaire with control issues didn’t scare her. You’re right, Damon said quietly. Immani’s head whipped around to stare at him. What? Your mother is right. I did coersse you. I used your desperation against you to get what I wanted. Damon’s voice was steady, but his eyes were pained. At the time, I told myself it was just business, a transaction.

But the truth is more complicated than that. What truth? Mama asked sharply. Damon looked at Ammani and something vulnerable passed across his face. The truth is that your daughter is the only person who’s ever touched me without making me feel contaminated. The truth is that I trapped her in this arrangement because I’m selfish and broken and I wanted to figure out why she affects me the way she does.

Damon turned back to Mama Loretta. The truth is I’m falling for your daughter and I don’t know how to handle that without trying to control it. Immani forgot how to breathe. Did Damon just say he was falling for her? Mama Loretta stared at Damon for a long moment. Then she said, “Sit down, Mr. Castellano. Let’s talk.

” Damon sat in the chair beside Mama’s bed, looking more nervous than Ammani had ever seen him. “You got OCD?” Mama asked bluntly. “Yes, ma’am. Trauma?” “Yes.” “You in therapy?” “No.” Mama’s expression said everything about what she thought of that answer. Why not? Because I don’t deserve to get better. I caused a fire when I was 8 years old that killed my father and my little sister.

My OCD is my punishment for that. Mama was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” Damon blinked. Excuse me. You heard me. Dumbest thing ever. Mama shifted in her bed, wincing slightly. You were a child. Children make mistakes. Tragic, awful mistakes sometimes, but mistakes nonetheless.

Punishing yourself for the rest of your life doesn’t honor the people you lost. It just wastes the life you still have. Mrs. Banks. And using my daughter as some kind of guinea pig to figure out your feelings, that’s selfish and it’s wrong. Mama’s eyes were fierce now. But I can see you know that.

I can see you feel guilty about it. So here’s what’s going to happen. Everyone waited. You should go to therapy. Real therapy, not just medication. You’re going to work on your issues like a grown man instead of hiding behind your money and your control. Mama pointed a finger at Damon. And you’re going to release my daughter from this contract immediately.

Mama. Ammani protested. Hush, baby. I’m not done. Mama turned that finger toward Ammani. And you. If you want to keep working for this man, that’s your choice. But it has to be a choice, not an obligation. You understand me? Immani nodded, too stunned to speak. Mama looked back at Damon. You love my daughter? I Damon swallowed hard.

I think I might. It’s complicated. Love is always complicated, but it shouldn’t be transactional. So, if you want to be with Ammani, you court her properly. You date her. You treat her with respect and dignity. And if she chooses you, it’s because she wants you, not because she owes you. Clear. Yes, ma’am. Good.

Mama leaned back against her pillows, suddenly looking exhausted. When you’re done, then I can thank you properly for saving my life without feeling like my daughter enslaved herself for it. Immani and Damon stood in the hospital parking lot, neither one knowing what to say. Finally, Damon broke the silence. Your mother is terrifying.

Despite everything, Immani laughed. Yeah, she’s something else. She’s also right about everything. Damon turned to face Immani fully. I’m releasing you from the contract. Effective immediately. The debt is forgiven. You’re free. Immani’s heart dropped. What? No, Damon. The money. The money doesn’t matter. It never mattered. Damon’s voice was intense.

What matters is that I trapped you in a situation you never chose, and that was wrong. So, I’m making it right. But I don’t want Let me finish. Damon took a breath. I’m releasing you from the contract, but I’m also asking if you’d consider staying. Not as my employee, as something else. Something else.

I don’t know what to call it yet, but I know that when you’re around, my apartment feels like a home instead of a sterile cage. I know that when you touch me, I feel alive for the first time in 24 years. I know that youmake me want to be better, to get help, to actually live instead of just existing.

Immani’s eyes were burning with tears. She refused to let fall. Damon, you don’t have to answer now. Take time. Think about it. But Imani, I need you to know that if you walk away right now, I’ll understand. And I’ll still make sure your mother gets the best care for the rest of her life. No strings, no debt, just because you deserve it.

This man, this broken, complicated, impossible man was offering her freedom. And all I wanted to do was choose him anyway. I need to think, Imani said finally. This is a lot. I know. Take all the time you need. Damon called his driver to take Emani home. And as the car pulled away, Ammani looked back to see him standing in the parking lot, looking more alone than she’d ever seen him.

3 days later, Immani hadn’t gone back to the penthouse. For 3 days, she stayed away, thinking, processing, trying to figure out what she wanted. Damon had been true to his word. He’d sent her a formal release from the contract signed and notorized. Her debt was forgiven. She was free. and Mama’s medical bills continued to be paid even though Emani no longer worked for Damon.

On the third day, Kesha came over with pizza and wine. “Okay, talk to me,” Kesha said, flopping onto Immani’s ratty couch. “You’ve been radio silent for 3 days. What’s going on?” Immani told her everything. The contract release, Damon’s confession, Mama’s intervention. When she finished, Kesha was quiet for a long moment.

Then she said, “Do you love him?” “I don’t know. Maybe it’s complicated.” “It’s always complicated with you.” Kha took a bite of pizza. But here’s the real question. Do you want to find out if you love him? Because that’s different from knowing for sure. Did Ammani want to find out? She thought about Damon’s vulnerable eyes when he talked about the fire.

The way he’d faced his hospital phobia just to meet her mother. The electricity that sparked between them every time they touched. The way he’d set her free even though it cost him everything. Yeah, man said softly. I think I do. Then what are you waiting for? Go get your man. Ammani showed up at Damon’s penthouse at 6 p.m.

on a Thursday, her heart pounding. She used the key card he’d never asked her to return and rode the elevator up. The penthouse was dark when she arrived. No lights, no sound. Damon, Ammani called out. No answer. She walked through the living room and noticed something that made her stop dead.

There were dishes in the sink. A coffee mug on the counter. A jacket thrown over a chair instead of hung in the closet. Damon’s perfect order was falling apart. He hadn’t called his house staff back yet. She found him in his bedroom, sitting on the floor with his back against the bed, staring at nothing. The room was a mess. Not as bad as after his nightmare, but definitely not the pristine space Imani was used to seeing.

“Damon?” he looked up and the surprise on his face was almost comical. “Immani, what are you doing here?” I came to give you my answer. Damon stood up slowly, his expression carefully neutral. And but first I need to know something. Ammani stepped closer. That first night in your office, did you really feel something when we touched or was that just a line to trap me? I felt it.

Damon’s voice was raw, honest. I’ve spent my whole life recoiling from human touch. And then you grabbed my wrist and I felt alive. It terrified me. So I trapped you because I’m selfish and I wanted to understand it to understand you. And do you understand me? No. But I want to spend however long it takes learning. Immani closed the distance between them until they were standing inches apart.

I have conditions, she said firmly. Anything. First, you start therapy. Real therapy this week. Done. Second, you stop using your OCD as punishment. You work on getting better because you deserve to heal, not because I’m asking you to. Okay. Third, we date like normal people. You take me to dinner. We go to movies.

We figure out if this electricity between us is real or just some weird psychological reaction to trauma and desperation. Damon’s lips twitched into almost smile. Those are fair conditions. and fourth. Immi reached out and took his hand, feeling that familiar shock run through both of them. You let me help you clean up this mess because partners don’t let partners drown alone.

Damon’s eyes went bright with emotion. Partners? If you want to be. Instead of answering with words, Damon did something that shocked them both. He pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her in a full embrace. Immani gasped. Damon touching her freely like this still shocked her to the bone. Every time. Damon, you’re OCD.

Won’t this make you panic? I thought it would. Damon murmured into her hair. But it doesn’t. With you, it doesn’t. They stood like that for a long moment, holding each other, feeling the electricity flow between them. Not just the strange shock, but something deeper,something real. Finally, Damon pulled back slightly to look at her.

I need to test something, he said quietly. Test what? A theory about why I can touch you without feeling contaminated. Damon’s thumb traced her jawline, his eyes intense. I think you might be my antidote, the one person who can break through my compulsions. But I need to be sure. How do you test that? Damon’s eyes dropped to her lips.

If I can kiss you without recoiling or panicking, I’ll know for certain that what I feel for you is stronger than my disorder. Immani’s heart was racing so fast she thought it might explode. And if you can’t, then we figure it out together. But Imani, I need to know. Can I kiss you? Instead of answering, Imani rose up on her toes and closed the distance between them.

The moment Damon’s lips touched Amani’s, the world stopped. It wasn’t just the way it sent pleasant tingles through every nerve ending. It was the way Damon kissed her like she was precious, like she was the answer to a question he’d been asking his whole life. One of his hands cuped her face, the other wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer.

And he didn’t pull away. Didn’t panic. Didn’t recoil. He just kissed her deeper like he was drowning and she was air. When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Damon pressed his forehead against hers. “I think I’ve found my antidote,” he whispered. Immani’s laugh was shaky, emotional. “That was very smooth. I’m serious.

You’re the cure to everything that’s broken in me. I’m not a cure, Damon. I’m just a person.” Immani pulled back to look at him properly. “You still need therapy. You still need to work on yourself. I can’t fix you. I know, but you make me want to fix myself. That’s more than anyone’s ever done. They kissed again, slower this time. Sweeter.

And then Ammani’s phone rang. She groaned and pulled it out. The hospital. Hello, Miss Banks. This is Dr. Smith. I wanted to let you know your mother is being released in about a week. Her recovery has exceeded all our expectations. Immani felt tears spring to her eyes. Really? She can come home? Yes, she’ll need follow-up care and ongoing monitoring, but the cancer is in remission.

Your mother beat it, Miss Banks. After Emani hung up, she turned to Damon with tears streaming down her face. Mama’s coming home. She beat it. She actually beat it. Damon pulled her into another hug, and Demani felt his chest shake with emotion, too. They stood like that in his messy bedroom, holding each other. Two broken people who’d somehow found healing in each other.

Life was perfect for them in that moment, but someone from the past was about to turn everything upside down. One week later, the knock on Damon’s door came at 300 p.m. on a Tuesday. Damon opened it to find a woman he hadn’t seen since he was 8. His mother. Hello, Damon. Everything inside Damon went cold. How did you find me? You’re a billionaire CEO.

You’re not exactly hard to find. His mother, Katherine Castellano, stepped into the penthouse without being invited. We need to talk. Just then, Immani came out of the kitchen having heard the muffled conversation from the doorway. Dish towel in hand. Catherine took one look at her and sneered. Who is this? Your girlfriend? Your wife? She asked it with so much spite directed at Ammani.

She took a step back from the force of it. “Why do you care?” Damon shot back, noticing Ammani’s unease. “You stopped caring about my life several years ago. Remember, you don’t deserve happiness, Damon. Not after what you did to this family.” Ammani stood frozen in the kitchen doorway, a dish towel still in her hands, watching this stranger tear into her boss with a viciousness that made the air feel toxic. “Mom, please.

” Damon’s voice was strained, his usual confidence completely gone. Don’t call me that. The woman, Damon’s mother, snapped. You lost the right to call me that years ago when you ended my husband and daughter. Ammani’s breath caught. This was Damon’s mother. The woman who’ abandoned him after the fire.

I didn’t murder them. It was an accident. An accident you caused. An accident that destroyed everything. Damon’s mother stepped closer, her finger jabbing at his chest. And then you abandoned me, left me in that facility to rot while you went off to live in luxury with your uncle’s money. You didn’t even visit, not once.

You told the doctors you didn’t want to see me. Damon’s voice was rising now, desperate. You said looking at me made you sick, so you just gave up. Just walked away from your own mother. I was 8 years old. The words hung in the air like a bomb. Damon’s mother’s face twisted with something between grief and fury. And now I hear you’re playing house with some girl, planning to be happy, planning to just forget what you did and move on with your life.

She turned and looked directly at Ammani. Is that her? Is that the girl you think can save you? You heartless son of a Stop, Ammani said firmly, steppingbetween Damon and his mother. Just stop. Catherine turned her fury on Ammani. This doesn’t concern you, girl. Yes, it does. Because I love him, and I’m not going to stand here and let you abuse him for something that happened when he was a child.

You don’t understand what he took from me. I understand grief. I understand loss. My mama almost died from cancer. I spent months watching her waste away, knowing I might lose the only parent I have. Ammani’s voice was steady, strong. And you know what I never did? I never blamed her for getting sick. I never told her she didn’t deserve to live because that’s not love. That’s cruelty.

Catherine’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Damon was 8 years old. Ammani continued, “A child, and instead of helping him heal from the trauma of watching his father and sister die, you abandoned him. You told him he was a murderer. You looked at him with hatred and disgust. And then you walked away. He took my family from me.

A fire took your family. An accident took your family. Immani’s voice rose. Damon lost his father too and his sister. And then he lost his mother because you were too consumed by grief to see that you still had a son who needed you. You were hurting from the loss. He was also hurting from the loss as well. the guilt of feeling responsible.

I can’t imagine your pain as a mother and wife experiencing all that in one day. I understand to some extent hating him for it, but completely cutting him out of your life. Can you imagine? Tears filled’s eyes despite her desperate attempts to fight it back. Can you imagine an 8-year-old boy who just lost his dad and sister thrown out by the only parent he had left? The only person he could turn to for comfort.

Catherine was crying now, silent tears running down her face. I spent 20 years in facilities, she whispered. Mental hospitals, treatment centers. Do you know what that does to a person? Again, I can’t imagine. I won’t lie and say I understand, but Damon spent the same years punishing himself for it. Together, you could have helped each other heal.

Apart, things just got worse. Mother and son stared at each other across the penthouse. Two people destroyed by the same tragedy, separated by guilt and grief and time. “I wanted to come see you,” Damon said quietly. After the fire, I tried to visit you in the hospital, but they said you didn’t want to see me.

I couldn’t look at you without seeing your father’s face, your sister’s smile, everything I’d lost. So, you lost me, too. Catherine’s face crumpled. I know. I know I failed you. I was drowning in grief and I let you drown with me. And I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. It was the apology Damon had needed for years. He stood frozen, not knowing how to respond.

Immani gently pushed him forward. Talk to her. Really talk both of you. She slid away back to the kitchen. Three hours later, Immani found Damon and Catherine sitting on the couch. A photo album opened between them. They were looking at pictures from before the fire. A family of four, smiling, happy, whole. That’s Arya, Catherine said, pointing to a little girl with pigtails.

She was so much like you, reckless and wild, and full of life. I don’t remember her laugh, Damon admitted quietly. I’ve tried, but I can’t remember what her laugh sounded like. It sounded like bells, high and clear and joyful. Catherine’s voice was thick with tears. She would have loved seeing the man you became.

They kept talking, sharing memories, beginning the long process of rebuilding what the fire had destroyed. Immani slipped away to give them privacy. Two days later, Damon stood in Immani’s tiny apartment looking completely out of place among the thrift store furniture and peeling paint. “Your mother is being released from the hospital today,” he said. “I know.

I’m picking her up in an hour. Where will she stay?” “Here?” Immani looked around at her cramped studio apartment, barely big enough for one person, let alone two. “We’ll make it work. What if I have a better idea? Damon, I own a building downtown, luxury apartments. There’s a two-bedroom unit on the fifth floor with a view of the river. Damon pulled out a key.

It’s yours for as long as you need it. No rent. I can’t accept that. It’s not charity. It’s me making sure the woman I love and the mother of the woman I love have a safe, comfortable place to recover and heal. Damon pressed the key into her hand. Please let me do this. Immani looked at the key, then at Damon’s face.

So open, so vulnerable, so full of hope. Okay, she whispered. Thank you. Damon took both her hands in his least I can do for you, Ammani. Whatever you want, whatever you need, don’t forget to always let me know. Immani rose up and kissed him, putting everything she felt into it. Gratitude, love, hope, joy. When they broke apart, Damon was smiling.

That rare, genuine smile that transformed his whole face. “I started therapy, by the way,” he said. “Yesterday, first session. How wasit?” “Terrible, uncomfortable. I hated every second.” Damon’s smile widened. “I’m going back next week. I’m proud of you. My therapist wants to meet you eventually.” She says, “You’re a significant factor in my progress.

” your progress. Apparently, having someone who makes you want to heal is a powerful motivator. Damon pulled her close again. You make me want to heal, Imani. You make me want to be better. Not perfect. Just better. Good. Because I don’t want perfect. I want real. They stood in Ammani’s cramped apartment holding each other.

And for the first time in either of their lives, they both felt like they’d found home. One year after Emani fell asleep in Damon’s office, they returned to the Castayano building together. The executive suite on the 68th floor looked exactly the same. Pristine, perfect, controlled, except now there was a photo on Damon’s desk. Him and Demani laughing at something off camera.

His arms around her waist, her head thrown back in joy. Real, imperfect, beautiful. I still can’t believe you kept that chair, Imani said, looking at the Italian leather executive chair where this all started. Are you kidding? That chair is significant. It’s where I found you. Where everything changed. Where you woke me up with a ruler and threatened to have me arrested.

Details? Damon grinned and pulled her down into the chair with him. Make a wish. A wish? You fell asleep in this chair a year ago, desperate and exhausted. Now you’re here by choice, happy and healthy. That seems like a good reason to make a wish. Immani closed her eyes and thought about everything that had happened in the past year.

Mama’s recovery, the debt forgiven, Damon’s therapy, Catherine’s return, the messy, complicated, beautiful relationship they’d built. She opened her eyes and looked at the man who’ trapped her and then set her free. I wish for more of this, Imani said simply. More growth, more healing, more love, more of us figuring out life together.

That’s a good wish, Damon murmured, kissing her softly. I’ll help you make it come true. And he did. Love isn’t about perfection or control. It’s about choosing to grow together, even when it’s messy and hard. It’s about finding someone who makes you want to heal. Not because they fix you, but because they make you believe you’re worth fixing.

And sometimes, just sometimes, the worst day of your life leads you directly to the best thing that ever happened to you. If this story touched your heart, hit that like button. Comment below telling me your favorite moment from this series and subscribe because we have more incredible stories coming that will make you laugh, cry, and believe in the power of love to heal even the deepest wounds.

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