Damian couldn't sleep.
It wasn't the billion-dollar deals. It wasn't even the grief hovering over Zina's unmoving body.
It was her.
The maid with storm-silent eyes. The girl who moved like she was afraid of being touched — but carried a strength that whispered she'd survived things no one should.
Amara.
He'd caught himself looking for her in hallways, watching her from the corner of his study. She never looked back. Not until yesterday.
He had touched her hand — lightly, to give her a dish — and she'd looked up at him.
For one brief second, he forgot she was a maid. And he forgot he was a man with every reason to keep people out.
His heart stuttered.
Amara noticed the change in him.
He no longer barked orders. He lingered. Asked how she was sleeping. Told the cook to make extra portions when he saw how thin she was.
He was kind.
Too kind.
And that made it dangerous.
She didn't want kindness. Didn't deserve it. Not after what happened to Zina. Not after surviving the streets with blood on her hands.
But still… she found herself folding the sheets on his bed a little straighter. Reaching for the lemon scent he liked best in his study. Listening for his voice.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
One afternoon, the storm finally cracked.
She was walking through the garden when it started to rain. The heavy, warm kind that soaked everything in seconds. The other maids ran for shelter.
She stood still.
Let the water wash over her like a blessing — or a punishment.
Then came his voice.
"You'll catch a cold."
She turned. Damian stood under the arch, staring at her like she was something between a tragedy and a masterpiece.
"I'm fine," she said softly.
"You're not," he said. "I see it in your eyes."
Silence.
Then he stepped out into the rain.
Without thinking, she reached for his shirt — tugged him to stop.
"You don't have to fix me," she said, eyes burning.
"I'm not trying to," he whispered. "But I can't stop looking."
And before she could speak, his lips brushed hers.
Gentle. Hesitant. Like asking permission.
She didn't push him away.
That night, Damian stayed awake replaying it all.
He didn't understand what he was feeling, only that it was deeper than curiosity and stronger than guilt.
Meanwhile, in the east wing…
Zina's fingers twitched.
Her eyes fluttered.
The nurse gasped and called for the doctor.
Zina opened her eyes slowly, blinking against the bright hospital lights.
"Where… where am I?" she croaked.
"You're safe," the nurse said. "You've been in a coma. Do you remember what happened?"
Zina frowned, her face twisted in pain.
"I… I don't know. There was a girl. A face."
"A face?"
Zina nodded, trembling.