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 Castellano’s obsessive control. Books arranged by height and color. Coffee mugs in the break room placed handle-out, evenly spaced. Even the pens on the desks were aligned parallel to the desk edges.
Imani 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.
Imani 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. Imani 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. Imani’s eyes flew open. And there he was. He had to be the most gorgeous man she had ever set eyes on.
The stranger stood over her: six-foot-three of controlled fury in a three-piece suit that probably cost more than three 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 Imani’s blood run cold. Dark brown, almost black, and absolutely merciless.
«I…» Imani 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 Imani flinch. «I’m calling Morrison right now. You’re fired. Security will escort you from the building.»
Panic seized Imani’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. Castellano.» Imani’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 Imani a wide berth, she noticed—and reached for his phone. «Yours doesn’t interest me.»
Imani 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 Imani’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 arced 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.
Imani stared at the destroyed phone, her mind reeling from the strange, pleasant shock she’d 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.»
Imani’s world tilted. «Eighty… what?»
«Custom-made, 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.
«Work it off how?» Imani 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 businesslike but his eyes still distant. «I’m going to give them all extended vacation. You’re going to replace them.»
Imani’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 morning at 6:00 a.m. You’ll cook, clean, run errands, and handle every aspect of my household until 6:00 p.m. Twelve hours a day, six 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!» Imani 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?»
Imani 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 Imani, 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. Mark it as 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 Imani 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, six days a week, that will take you approximately two years to pay off.»
Imani felt the blood drain from her face. «You… you can’t…»
«I already did.» Damon’s voice was 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 Imani. «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 two years of her life.
The address Damon had texted Imani was in the Gold Coast, one of the most expensive neighborhoods in Chicago. Imani 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, Imani told herself. It’s just two years. Two 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. Imani stepped inside, and the doors closed behind her with a soft whisper that sounded like a trap snapping shut.
The penthouse was exactly what Imani 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 Imani 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.
«You’re eight minutes early.»
Imani 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 Imani’s mouth go dry despite the fact that she was supposed to hate him.
«I thought early was better than late,» Imani 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 Imani could respond. Imani stood in the massive living room, alone, and let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.
The schedule was typed, printed, and laminated. Of course it was.
Daily Schedule. Household Staff.
- 6:00 A.M. Prepare Breakfast. Egg White Omelet 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).
- 7:30 A.M. Serve Breakfast. Place in Dining Room on Eastern Placemat. Utensils exactly 1 inch from plate edge. Coffee Cup Handle at 3 o’clock position.
- 7:30 A.M. Clean Kitchen. Wash all dishes immediately. Wipe counters with antibacterial solution. Mop floor.
The list went on for pages. Every minute of Imani’s 12-hour day was accounted for. Scheduled. Controlled. Just like everything else in Damon Castellano’s life.
Imani found the kitchen, which was bigger than her entire apartment, and got to work.
The omelet was a disaster. Not burn-down-the-kitchen disaster, 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 Imani tried to flip it, the whole thing broke apart into scrambled egg chunks.
«Damn it,» Imani 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, coffee, and orange juice. At exactly 7:00 a.m., Imani 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 Imani’s car. He didn’t look up when she entered.
Imani set the plate down on the placemat. Eastern side, just like the schedule said. She positioned the utensils exactly one inch from the edge. She turned the coffee cup so the handle was at 3 o’clock.
Damon glanced at the food. His expression didn’t change, but Imani 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 omelet.»
«Then maybe you should lower your expectations,» Imani shot back before she could stop herself.
Damon’s eyes flicked up to meet hers, and for a moment, Imani thought she’d just made a terrible mistake. This man owned her contract 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 omelet thing. He chewed slowly, thoughtfully, then swallowed. «It’s adequate,» he said finally. «Tomorrow, watch a video on how to make a proper omelet. YouTube has thousands of tutorials. Pick one and learn.»
«Yes, sir,» Imani 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.»
Imani looked back at him, surprised. «You want me to call you by your first name?»
«We’ll be working closely together for two years. Formality seems unnecessary.» He took a sip of his coffee, and Imani saw the tiniest hint of satisfaction cross his face. «The coffee’s 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. Imani 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. Vacuum the living room in straight lines. Dust the bookshelves without moving any books out of their precise order.
By noon, Imani’s back was aching, and her hands smelled like cleaning solution. The schedule said she had a 30-minute 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.
Imani 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, free-range, artisanal 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, prosciutto, 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 Imani made per hour. He slid the plate across the counter to her. «Eat that instead.»