By the second week of living in the penthouse, I began to settle into a routine, at least outwardly. Inside, though, my mind was in chaos. Every thought seemed to orbit around one thing: Jamal Yusuf.
I told myself repeatedly that this was a business arrangement. Nothing more. There were rules. Boundaries. A contract. And yet, every small interaction with him made my heart race and my thoughts spiral.
It began with subtle, almost imperceptible things.
One morning, I entered the kitchen to find him already there, standing by the counter with a cup of black coffee in hand. The sunlight streamed through the massive windows, catching the slight tousle in his hair and the faint shadow of a crease on his perfectly tailored shirt. He looked… human. Not the untouchable billionaire I had imagined, but a man who could be tired, distracted, and yet still breathtakingly composed.
Our eyes met, and for the first time, I felt that inexplicable spark. I quickly dropped my gaze, cheeks burning.
"Good morning," I whispered, almost shyly.
"Morning," he replied, his voice low, calm, and somehow intimate. That single word made my pulse quicken, though I didn't understand why.
The first week had been all about observation. He watched me the way a sculptor studies a block of marble, carefully, deliberately, noting every detail. At first, it unnerved me. Now, strangely, I found it… flattering.
Later that morning, I caught him in a rare unguarded moment. He was leaning against the railing of the balcony, looking out over Lagos with his hands clasped behind his back. The city stretched endlessly beneath him, glittering in the sunlight. His profile, sharp and commanding, was softened only by the quiet solitude of the moment.
I hesitated before stepping closer. I didn't want to intrude, but I couldn't resist.
"You spend a lot of time out here," I said softly.
He glanced at me, eyes dark but thoughtful. "It's the only place I can think without interruptions," he said. "And you… you seem to adapt quickly. It's… impressive."
I felt heat creep up my neck. "I'm just… trying to keep up," I murmured.
For a moment, he said nothing. Then he turned to me, his gaze steady and piercing. "You're more than just trying," he said quietly. "You're capable. Intelligent. Strong. Smarter than most people I've met."
I swallowed hard, caught off guard by his words. Nobody had ever described me that way. Not like this. Not in such a quiet, unwavering tone that made it impossible to dismiss.
Days turned into nights, and the tension between us thickened.
It wasn't just the physical closeness, though even the smallest touches made my pulse spike. It was the subtle ways he showed attention:
Leaving a neatly folded note on my desk each morning: "Don't forget to eat lunch. I know you'll get caught up in work."
Quietly making sure my favorite coffee and snacks were available without me asking.
Watching me work from across the room, eyes calculating yet strangely gentle.
These gestures weren't overwhelming. They were small, almost innocuous. Yet, I noticed. And every time I did, a quiet thrill ran through me.
Then came the library incident, a moment I would never forget.
I was seated at the long oak table, poring over a business report Jamal had asked me to summarize. The room was silent except for the soft hum of the air conditioner. I was so engrossed that I didn't notice him standing behind me until he cleared his throat gently.
"May I?" he asked, gesturing to the chair beside me.
I hesitated. "Of course," I said softly.
He sat, careful not to crowd my space, yet close enough that the warmth from his body brushed against my arm. I could feel my pulse quicken, though I tried to focus on the papers in front of me.
We worked in silence at first, side by side. Every time our shoulders almost touched, a jolt of electricity ran through me. Every brush of our hands, however minor, seemed magnified, charged with unspoken tension.
Finally, he spoke. "You're improving quickly. Faster than I expected."
I looked up, startled. "I… thank you, sir."
He gave me a faint smile, subtle, almost imperceptible, but it carried weight. "You don't need to call me that all the time."
My chest constricted. It was the first time he had allowed me any familiarity. A crack in his armor. And I noticed. Oh, I noticed.
Later that evening, as I walked through the penthouse with a stack of documents, he appeared in the hallway. "I wanted to ask… do you want dinner delivered, or would you like to cook together?"
I blinked. "Cook together?"
"Yes," he said, an almost shy smile on his lips. "If you're not too tired, I thought it might be… nice."
I hesitated, my mind spinning. Cooking with Jamal Yusuf? Me, in his kitchen, side by side with him? But something about the way he asked, careful, patient, almost hopeful, made me nod.
The dinner that followed was an experience I would never forget.
We moved around the kitchen in a delicate dance, passing each other with ease, yet feeling the tension of every brush of hands. He chopped vegetables with precise movements, while I stirred sauces, occasionally meeting his gaze. Each shared glance, each quiet laugh, each accidental touch, it all felt electric.
"I… don't know why this feels so… easy," I admitted softly, leaning against the counter as we plated the meal.
"Maybe because it's not supposed to be easy," he replied, his eyes locking with mine. "Maybe that's why it feels… exciting."
My heart skipped a beat. I wanted to argue. I wanted to remind him, and myself that this was just a contract, that nothing could happen. But I didn't. I couldn't.
That night, after dinner, we cleaned together silently, a comfortable tension lingering between us. When I finally returned to my room, I realized I had been thinking about him all day, every moment. And I hated myself for it.
Because falling for Jamal Yusuf was dangerous.
And yet… I couldn't stop.