It was curated control.
By the time Imani reached Damon’s private office, she was running on fumes. The city glowed outside. The room smelled faintly of leather and disinfectant. And there, behind that huge desk, sat the chair.
The chair.
The chair that became the beginning of everything.
She told herself it would be one minute.
Then she woke to a sharp poke on her arm and a voice colder than Chicago in January.
“Wake up.”
Her eyes flew open.
A tall man in a dark suit stood over her, holding a ruler in one gloved hand.
He was the kind of beautiful that initially felt unfair. Sharp features, broad shoulders, deep brown skin, eyes so dark they looked almost black in the dim light. But whatever beauty he possessed was buried under absolute fury.
“I…” Imani scrambled upright too fast, nearly falling out of the chair. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“You fell asleep,” he said, each word clipped and controlled, “in my chair. In my office.”
Her stomach dropped through the floor.
This was Damon Castellano.
Not some old tyrant in expensive shoes.
This.
Please, she thought wildly, not him. Not tonight.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“Get out.”
“Please, Mr. Castellano, I—”
“Security will escort you downstairs. Morrison is being called. You’re fired.”
The panic that rose inside her was fast and animal.
No. Not now. Not with her mother waiting for surgery. Not with bills crushing her. Not with hope finally close enough to touch.
“Please,” she said, hating how desperate she sounded. “My mother is sick. She has cancer. I need this job.”
Damon’s face did not soften.
“Everyone has a story,” he said. “Yours does not change my standards.”
Then he reached for his phone.
And Imani did something reckless.
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