By the end of the first week, living with Jamal Yusuf was starting to feel… surreal.
The penthouse was vast, intimidating, and pristine. Every surface gleamed, every object was in its proper place, and the city stretched below us in a glittering expanse. It was a life I could never have imagined, luxurious, overwhelming, and frighteningly permanent.
Harper had helped me settle into my room, unpacking a few essentials and showing me where to find things. Yet, once alone, the silence of the penthouse pressed on me. It was too quiet, too empty, and I felt exposed.
Jamal appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, tall, perfectly composed, watching me with those dark, unreadable eyes.
"You're adjusting well?" he asked, his tone measured.
"I… I think so," I said, though my voice wavered.
He handed me a folder. "This is your schedule. Tasks, meetings, responsibilities. We maintain appearances. That is all."
I flipped through the papers, trying to steady my racing heart. The list was long, complex, intimidating, corporate meetings, financial reports, schedules I barely understood. My chest tightened, the reality of this arrangement pressing down.
He added quietly, "You'll learn. You're capable."
I glanced up, startled. His gaze was steady, unwavering, and for a moment, I saw something softer, almost human behind the cold exterior.
That night, sleep eluded me. The room was vast, silent, unfamiliar. Every shadow seemed to move. Every creak of the building made me startle. And, inevitably, I thought of him, his presence, his words, his eyes.
The next morning, I emerged from my room to find him in the kitchen, drinking coffee. Our eyes met briefly. My pulse raced.
"Coffee's on the counter. Breakfast is in the fridge," he said quietly.
I nodded, trying to act normal. And yet, I noticed everything about him: the way he moved, the faint tension in his jaw, the controlled calm in his posture.
Over the next few days, I settled into routines. We rarely spoke, except for scheduling, tasks, or brief logistical instructions. Yet even in those quiet moments, tension built, a slow, unspoken awareness of each other.
Small incidents became impossible to ignore;
His eyes following me across the room.
Notes left on my desk. "Lunch. Don't skip it."
Hands brushing when passing files.
Each gesture, minor as it seemed, was amplified by the silence between us. I felt it in my chest, my stomach, my skin. My heart betrayed me, even as my mind screamed caution.
One evening, I sat on the balcony, the city lights glittering below. He appeared beside me silently, not crowding, just… present.
"You adapt quickly," he said quietly. "Impressive."
I looked down, fidgeting with my hands. "I'm just… trying."
For a moment, he said nothing, just watched the city. Then he said softly, "You're more than trying. You're capable. Intelligent. Strong."
I swallowed, heart pounding. His words struck me in a way I wasn't ready for. Recognition from Jamal Yusuf felt like sunlight breaking through clouds — warm, surprising, and slightly frightening.
By the end of the week, I realized I was changing, adapting. And also noticing him. Every detail. Every movement. Every subtle gesture.
And I hated how much I cared.