“The surgery will cost seven million CFA francs. We need at least half before we can schedule it.”
Three million five hundred thousand francs.
To some people, it was a number. To Nadia, it was a mountain.
So when she entered that billionaire’s office and saw the chair, her exhausted body made the decision before her mind could stop it.
Just five minutes, she thought.
She sat down carefully, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes.
Within seconds, she was asleep.
Fifteen minutes later, the private elevator opened.
Damien Quadio stepped out.
He was one of the most powerful businessmen in West Africa, owner of Quadio Tower and a man known for one thing above all else: perfection. His employees feared his silence more than another man’s anger. He noticed a crooked frame, a dusty corner, a file placed one inch from where it belonged.
Everything in Damien’s world had a place.
And that night, Nadia was in his.
He opened the door, switched on the light, and froze.
A young cleaner was asleep in his chair.
Behind him, Moussa, the head of security, stopped in shock.
“Sir,” Moussa said carefully, “I’ll wake her and take her out.”
Damien raised a hand.
“No. Leave her.”
Moussa blinked, surprised, but obeyed.
Damien stood there for a moment, studying the girl. Her uniform was faded. Her hands were rough. Her face carried a kind of exhaustion that could not be faked.
Still, rules were rules.
He took a wooden ruler from the side cabinet, put on his black gloves, and tapped her arm lightly.
“Wake up.”
Nadia’s eyes flew open.
For a moment, she did not know where she was. Then she saw the man standing over her, tall, elegant, cold-eyed, and every bit as terrifying as the workers had described.
She jumped to her feet.
“Sir, I’m so sorry. I only sat down for a minute. I didn’t mean to—”
“You fell asleep in my chair,” Damien said.
His voice was calm, but the coldness in it made her stomach drop.
“I’m sorry, sir. I promise it will never happen again.”
“You are fired.”
The words struck her harder than a slap.
Nadia’s breath caught.
Fired?
If she lost this job, she would never save her mother.
“Please, sir,” she whispered, stepping forward without thinking. “Please don’t do this.”
In desperation, she reached for his wrist.
The moment her fingers touched his skin, both of them froze.
Damien had spent most of his adult life avoiding touch. He hated the feeling of other people’s hands on him. That was why he wore gloves so often. Touch made him feel invaded, contaminated, out of control.
But Nadia’s touch was different.
