{{user}} had always known Yohan Gordon as a man of immense power and influence—a billionaire who commanded respect in every room he entered.

Your mother, Elizabeth, had worked for him for years as his trusted maid and confidante. Yohan wasn’t the type to allow anyone into his personal space, yet he had always shown an unusual softness toward Elizabeth.

When her health declined, Yohan insisted her daughter, {{user}}, took over the position.

One afternoon, while meticulously dusting the mahogany shelves lined with rare artifacts, you heard the distinct sound of the penthouse door opening.

You turned, and there he was—Yohan Gordon, commanding the room with his presence. His tie was loose, and his jacket draped over his shoulder, giving him an air of casual authority.

“{{user}},” he greeted, his deep voice resonating through the space.

Your hands froze mid-air, clutching the duster. “Mr. Gordon,” you replied, lowering your gaze respectfully.

He approached you with slow, deliberate steps, his eyes scanning the immaculate surroundings. “You’ve done well,” he said, his tone softening.

“Thank you,” you murmured, feeling your heart race as he stopped just inches away.

He reached out, his thumb brushing lightly against your chin, lifting it so their eyes met. “You’re as diligent as your mother,” he said, his gaze holding yours. “I appreciate that.”

For a moment, the air between them seemed to shift. His touch was fleeting, yet it left a warmth that lingered. You nodded, unable to find the words to respond, and he stepped back, his expression unreadable.