Day Two started with a lot less anxiety and a lot more determination. Amara walked into the building with her head held higher than the previous day, her blouse tucked better, and her confidence stitched together by pure willpower. The building still intimidated her, but now it didn't feel like it would swallow her whole.
She was halfway through reviewing a marketing draft when Damien walked into the building.
His presence was magnetic, as always—sharp jawline, immaculate suit, sunglasses still on, like he hadn't bothered to notice how indoors worked. People nodded with silent reverence as he passed, but Amara kept her eyes glued to her screen.
Don't stare. He's just a boss. Your boss. Not a Greek god in tailored Armani.
Unfortunately for her, Damien noticed everything.
From behind the glass wall of his office, he watched her. There was a smudge of ink on her thumb. A barely tamed curl behind her ear. She had a way of biting her lower lip when confused. He told himself it was just professional curiosity—after all, she was new. But the truth sat heavier in his chest.
She was in his head.
And he hated it.
Around noon, he received the call.
It was from the hospital. His mother had collapsed.
Damien's face turned pale for the briefest moment. Then he grabbed his coat and left with a curt, "Cancel my meetings."
At the hospital, he braced himself for the worst.
His mother lay peacefully in bed, awake. When the doctor entered, his expression wasn't one of concern—but wonder.
"She shouldn't have made it through the night," the doctor said, adjusting his glasses. "But it's… honestly a miracle. Her vitals are improving rapidly. We're not sure what changed."
Damien sat beside her, silently watching her chest rise and fall. Relief softened his features. For the first time in weeks, his shoulders lowered, and something unspoken unclenched inside him.
"She's fighting," he murmured, more to himself than to anyone.
Back at the office, Amara juggled her tasks while stealing moments to check her phone. There were two missed calls from her younger brother, Emeka, and three texts from Chidi, the last born and professional nuisance.
Chidi: "Aunty breadwinner, I'm hungry. College isn't free o. Help a guy." Chidi: "Also, I need socks. And data. Don't roll your eyes. I know you're rolling your eyes."
She sighed, chuckling despite herself. Then Emeka called again.
"Babe!" he said when she answered, his voice warm with laughter.
"I'm your sister, Emeka."
"Still my babe," he said. "How's corporate America?"
"It's terrifying. I think my laptop is judging me."
They joked, laughed, teased—until the call quieted down and she found herself staring at a crack in the conference table.
"You sound… good," Emeka said finally.
She nodded even though he couldn't see her. "I'm trying. I have to."
There was a beat of silence.
"Sometimes I wish Mum didn't get the custody," he said quietly.
Amara sighed. "Yeah, but you know why she did. Dad couldn't keep up. No job, no support. It was the right call."
"You became the support, though."
She blinked hard. "Someone had to."
When the call ended, she sat still for a moment. She didn't have the luxury of failure. If this job was the rope pulling them out of poverty, she was hanging on till her hands bled.
Damien returned around 3 p.m.
He wore a faint smile that none of his staff had seen in months.
Amara noticed immediately. "Rough day?" she asked lightly.
"You have no idea," he said, loosening his tie. "But… it got better."
Their eyes met.
She blinked, looked away. "Glad to hear it."
He glanced at his watch, then back at her. "Would you be willing to stay after hours?"
She straightened. "For work?"
He gave her a look. "Unless you were hoping for dinner and a movie."
Her eyes widened. He smirked.
"Work is fine," she said quickly, flustered.
"Good. You're learning."
The hours passed in an odd dance of awkward silences and stolen glances. Damien would occasionally make a joke that made her laugh, and she'd slip into moments of sarcasm that made him shake his head in amusement.
But he never said too much. Never crossed a line.
Still… something in his actions hinted at interest. The way he stood close when he didn't need to. The softness in his tone. The unspoken patience he offered only her.
By 8 p.m., he called it a day.
"Come on," he said. "I'll drop you."
She tried to argue, but he was already holding the door open. Ten minutes later, they were parked in front of her apartment.
"This is me," she said awkwardly, gripping the door handle.
Damien got out of the car and came around to her side.
Before she could say anything, he leaned down, kissed her cheek softly—quick, light, warm.
It wasn't romantic. Not exactly.
But it sent a bolt through her body like someone had flipped a switch inside her.
She froze.
Statue mode.
"Relax," he chuckled, straightening. "You look like I turned you to stone."
She blinked, heart hammering.
"I… um—"
"Goodnight, Amara," he said, still smiling.
And then he got back into the car and drove away.
Leaving her standing in the cool evening air, cheeks burning, head spinning.
She didn't move for a full minute.
What was that?
What did it mean?
And why… did she want it to happen again?