Jamila had been told that Ferdinand's morning ritual required bread toasted to a crisp, two fried eggs, and a glass of warm milk.
As she arranged the tray, a flutter of nervous excitement rose in her chest. She wanted to impress him. He was undeniably handsome, and the lingering scent of his expensive cologne still played with her senses from their encounter in the kitchen. But she caught herself quickly. A girl from her background had no business dreaming of a Garcia; she was there to serve, not to fall in love.
She took a steadying breath, balancing the tray on her palm as she turned to leave.
"Hold up." One of the older maids blocked her path, a mocking grin stretching across her face. Before Jamila could react, the woman reached out and began fussing with Jamila's shoulders. "You might want to put your hair up in the neatest bun you've ever managed," she advised.
"Mr. Ferdinand likes it that way?" Jamila asked innocently.
The kitchen erupted in a chorus of stifled giggles. The maid in front of her shook her head, her smile turning wicked. "I wouldn't say he likes it, exactly. Let's just say it's for your own good. I'd hate to see you come out of that room in thirty minutes looking like you just blew in from hell—a total hot mess."
Laughter followed Jamila out of the room, leaving her stomach in knots. What did that mean? Was he so meticulous that a single stray hair would cost her the job? Panic set in. She pulled a band from her apron and scraped her thick curls into a tight, severe bun, checking her reflection in the curve of a polished ladle.
By the time she reached the upstairs landing, she was spiraling. Was the toast too dark? Was the milk the wrong temperature? What if he was allergic to dairy and the other girls were setting her up to be fired—or worse? Was she a threat because he had touched her hair?
"Are you lost?"
The deep voice snapped Jamila out of her trance. She realized she had been standing frozen in front of Ferdinand's door. She turned to find a man who shared Ferdinand's striking features but carried them with a more seasoned, intimidating maturity. His hair was dark and effortlessly unkempt, and a shadow of stubble defined a razor-sharp jawline.
"I…" Jamila dropped her gaze instantly, staring at her own feet. "I was bringing breakfast to Mr. Ferdinand, sir."
"Look at me when I'm talking to you," he commanded calmly. Jamila forced her eyes up to meet a piercing green gaze. He stood with casual dominance in sweatpants and a gray t-shirt, his hands buried in his pockets. "Are you new? You don't look familiar."
"I am, sir," she whispered, her head dipping again. There was a weight to his presence, a silent power that made her feel dangerously small. The head maid's warning echoed in her mind: never look them in the eye.
"What's your name?"
"Jamila, sir."
"Guatemala?"
"No, sir. Jamila."
"No," he corrected with a faint, amused tilt of his head. "I mean, are you from Guatemala?"
Heat rushed to Jamila's cheeks.
"Johannesburg, South Africa, sir."
"I see." He lapsed into silence, his eyes roaming over her face. She was a rarity in this house, possessing a beauty that felt raw and unfiltered. For a moment, he felt an inexplicable urge to reach out and touch the hair she had so carefully pinned back. "Go ahead, then."
He watched her knock twice and disappear into the room, wondering why his brother was still hiding in bed while the world moved on without him.
…
Ferdinand was freshly showered, draped in nothing but a white towel that clung precariously to his hips. As Jamila set the tray down, he stepped into her space, his bare chest still glistening with droplets of water.
Jamila spun around, her face burning. "I'm so sorry, sir! They told me to knock and enter. I didn't know—please don't fire me."
The sound of her accent, frantic and melodic, only fueled the fire in his blood. He moved until he was standing directly behind her, his heat radiating through her thin uniform. "You sure took your time for a simple plate of eggs."
"I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again." She was trembling now, the maid's warning finally clicking into place.
Ferdinand leaned in, the hard line of his desire pressing firmly against her. His breath brushed against the sensitive skin of her ear, sending a traitorous shiver down her spine.
"I'll let it slide," he murmured, "if you're willing to make up for it."
He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his lips tracing a path toward her shoulder. When his fingers found the zipper of her dress, a soft, involuntary moan escaped her. The sound snapped her back to reality.
"W-What are you doing?" She scrambled away, clutching the back of her dress.
"Don't be stupid," he said, his voice dropping into a cold command. "Strip and get on the bed."
The truth hit her like a physical blow. The laughter, the "hot mess" comments—it wasn't about his standards. It was about his appetite. "No," she breathed, her eyes darting around for an exit or a weapon. She found neither.
"No?" Ferdinand chuckled, a dark, predatory sound. "Playing hard to get? You enjoyed that touch as much as I did." He lunged forward, slamming the door shut and pinning her against the wood. He leaned down, inhaling her scent. "You smell amazing."
She shoved him with every ounce of strength she had, creating just enough space to breathe.
"You walk out that door, you're fired," Ferdinand hissed, his face contorted with bruised ego.
"Just because I won't sleep with you?"
"You think you can win? You can lie on that bed and let me fuck you, or you can leave and realize my father's reach is long enough to ensure you never work in this country again. Look at you. You're nothing. Your life is pathetic." He stroked her cheek with a mocking tenderness. "Choose wisely."
Tears blurred her vision, but a spark of fire ignited in her gut. She wasn't just a "nothing."
"This isn't the only country in the world," she said, her voice steadying as she looked him dead in the eye.
Ferdinand laughed. "You'd be surprised how much power a Garcia has."
"No," she repeated, standing her ground.
Ferdinand's face went cold, the rejection curdling into pure spite.
"Have it your way, then," he spat, turning away. "Dumb African."
The words hit her harder than any threat. Jamila froze. "Did you just call me a dumb African?"
Ferdinand raised an eyebrow, a sneer forming on his lips. "And what are you going to do about—"
The sound of the slap echoed like a gunshot in the silent room.
Ferdinand's head snapped to the side, his cheek blooming a violent red. Before he could even process the sting, Jamila had wrenched the door open and vanished, already planning her escape to the borders—maybe even to Guatemala.