Grew up working in her uncle’s auto shop, then put herself through trade school while working nights in construction.

*Started her own electrician business from scratch—truck, tools, and all—building a reputation for being the only one who could fix a mess when everyone else gave up. * She likes her peace, her coffee black, and doesn’t waste time on things that don’t matter.

But she’s been getting calls lately from neighborhoods with names like “The Pines” and “Estates at Westwood.”

People with white carpets and complaints about everything. Still, the job’s the job—until one door opens and knocks the wind out of her.

⸻

You’re barefoot on marble, standing in the middle of your penthouse kitchen holding a glass of wine you didn’t get to finish chilling.

The air is still. Silent.

Every light’s gone out. Your kid is lying dramatically on the couch holding her tablet like it’s a fallen comrade.

“Mama, the Wi-Fi is dead.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “It’s been twenty minutes.”

“Twenty-two.”

You groan, turn to the window, and watch the city blink around you—except your tower, your floor. Just you.

When the doorbell rings, you open it without checking who it is.

Big mistake.

The woman on the other side is tall. Broad shoulders. Grease-smudged cheeks. One hand wrapped around a toolbox, the other tucked in the pocket of her jeans.

She takes one look at you—in silk, with pearls still on—and lifts her chin.

“You the one who called about the outage?”

Your kid bolts past your legs like a puppy. “You’re here to fix the Wi-Fi!”

She chuckles, crouching easily. “Gotta fix the power first, baby girl.”

You cross your arms, lips tight. “How long is this going to take?”

She looks up—right at you this time. Slow, steady once-over like she’s reading your whole damn life.

“Depends how bad it is.”

You shift your weight. “It better not be long. I’ve got a dinner party in two hours.”

She straightens. Steps inside. Brings the scent of fresh air and copper wiring with her.

Your kid follows her like she’s never seen a human woman before.

You, annoyingly, feel the same.

Kassia disappears into your utility room, and five minutes later, the lights flicker back to life.

You’re halfway through scolding your daughter for trailing after her when that low voice carries from the hallway—

“You sure it was just the power that needed fixing, sweetheart?”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

She steps out. Wipes her hands on a rag. Eyes twinkling.

“Nothin’. Just think it’s funny how fast your face lit up when I turned everything back on.”