Imani 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, and completely emotionless. «It’s in my best interest to keep you healthy.»
But as he turned to leave, Imani 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.
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 Imani felt like she was wasting her time cleaning a room that definitely didn’t need cleaning.
Imani 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?» Imani asked.
«No, just checking on your progress.»
«I’m dusting. Not exactly complicated.»
Nevertheless, Damon stepped into the room, moving closer. Imani went back to dusting, 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.
Imani spun around. «What are you doing?»
«Nothing. I thought you were going to knock over the lamp.» Damon’s voice was smooth, but Imani 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 Imani standing there, confused and a little creeped out.
It happened again at 4:00 p.m. Imani 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?» Imani 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, «Reorganize them. Please.» He walked away.
Imani 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?
That night, after Imani’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 Imani with a tired smile. «The next 72 hours are critical, but I’m optimistic.»
Imani 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,» Imani 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 gonna get better and then we’re gonna go home. And everything’s gonna be okay.»
Mama’s chest rose and fell with mechanical precision. Imani 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 two years.
One week later.
«You’re humming.»
Imani 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 three 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?» Imani 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 Imani’s chest. He was keeping track of Mama’s recovery? «Thank you,» Imani 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, Imani 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. Imani would catch Damon nearby, his hand reaching toward her like he was going to tap her shoulder or brush her arm, 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 Imani 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 refrigerator shelves while Imani made his smoothie. He’d been hovering for ten minutes.
«Doing what?» Damon asked, not looking at her.
«Getting close to me. Reaching for me. Then pulling away.» Imani set 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 Imani completely off 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?»
Imani 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.»
Imani 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.
«You have OCD,» Imani 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, Imani. Please.»
The use of her first name made something flutter in Imani’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 made Imani gasp and Damon’s eyes go wide. But this time, Damon didn’t pull away. He stood perfectly still, staring at Imani’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, Imani’s hand on Damon’s wrist, electricity crackling between them, neither one willing to break the connection. Finally, Imani 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 Imani’s breath catch.
«With you, I feel alive.»
Two Weeks Later
The day everything changed started normally enough. Imani 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 2:00 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?»
Imani watched from the kitchen where she was preparing his afternoon snack. She’d never seen Damon rattled before. His control was always perfect. 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?» Imani 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 two hours.»
«Okay, and that’s a problem because?»
«Because the bedroom isn’t clean.»
Imani 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 Imani had never seen. «I had an episode last night. A bad one. The bedroom is… it’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.»
Imani walked to the bedroom, opened the door, and stopped dead.
The room looked like a tornado had hit it. The bed was destroyed, blankets twisted in 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.
Imani turned to look at him, and for the first time since she’d met him, Damon Castellano looked small. Vulnerable. Human.
«How long do we have before the inspectors get here?» Imani asked.
«An hour and forty-five minutes.»
«Then we better get started.»
They worked together in intense silence. Imani 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 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,» Imani lied smoothly, because Damon had specifically told her to handle this without disturbing him. «I’m Imani Banks, his household manager. I can show you around.»
The inspection went smoothly. Janet and Carlos checked the smoke detectors, tested the water pressure, and examined the HVAC vents. Everything was perfect, because of course it was. This was Damon’s space.
After the inspectors left, Imani found Damon in his office, staring at his computer screen without actually seeing it.
«They’re gone,» Imani 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 thirteen years ago. That’s pretty much the definition of a freak.»
Imani 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,» Imani said quietly. «Please?»
Damon was silent for so long that Imani thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then he started talking.
«I was eight years old,» Damon said, his voice distant. «My dad worked long hours, so it was usually just me and my little sister, Aria. She was six. My mom worked evenings, so we were alone a lot.»
He paused, and Imani 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 flame moved, the heat, the power of it.»