CHAPTER TWO - THE CELL

The sun hadn’t even climbed past the rooftops when Amara’s phone began buzzing against the chipped nightstand. She groaned, burying her face into the pillow, praying it would stop. Clara’s muffled voice floated from the other side of the room.

“Your phone’s about to shatter the table. Answer it before it vibrates straight through the floor.”

Amara reached blindly, squinting at the glowing screen. An unknown number. Her thumb hovered, debating whether to ignore it. But something in her gut pushed her to swipe.

“Hello?” Her voice was rough, sleep still clinging to her throat.

“Is this Amara Blake?” A woman’s clipped, professional tone cut through the line.

Amara sat up. “Yes. Who’s asking?”

“This is Marissa, Mr. Damian Cole’s executive assistant. He would like to extend an offer of employment.”

For a second, Amara thought she’d misheard. “I’m sorry - what?”

“You met him yesterday at a café. He requires additional staff for a private event later this week and was impressed by your… professionalism.”

Amara nearly choked on the word. Professionalism? She had practically threatened to drown the man in espresso.

“This must be a mistake,” Amara muttered.

“It isn’t,” Marissa said crisply. “The position is temporary - personal assistant duties. Generous pay, accommodation provided if necessary. Do you accept it?”

Amara opened her mouth, closed it, then glanced at Clara, who was now staring wide-eyed. Her sister mouthed and said yes.

Her pride screamed and said no.

“I…” Amara faltered. Rent. Medicine. Tuition. The numbers stacked in her mind like weights she could no longer carry. “Yes,” she whispered.

“Excellent. A car will pick you up tomorrow at nine. Dress professionally.” Click.

The line went dead.

Amara stared at her phone like it had grown teeth.

Clara shot up from the bed, grinning. “A job offer! See, I told you last night - maybe he’s just lonely. Guess he liked you.”

“Liked me?” Amara scoffed. “He looked at me like I was lint on his jacket. This doesn’t make sense.”

“Doesn’t have to. You need money.” Clara slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Think of it as temporary humiliation with benefits.”

Amara groaned, dropping her head into her hands. “I knew spilling coffee on a stranger would ruin my life. Didn’t think it would also hire me.”

The next morning, a sleek black car idled outside their crumbling apartment building, looking painfully out of place. Neighbors peered through curtains, whispering. Amara smoothed her only blazer, heart thudding as she slid into the leather interior.

The drive was silent, the driver’s eyes fixed on the road. She clutched her worn handbag tighter, feeling every bit the imposter she was.

When the gates of the Cole estate loomed into view, her breath caught. The mansion was sprawling, its glass windows glittering like mirrors, manicured gardens stretching farther than her eyes could follow. It wasn’t a house - it was a kingdom.

And she was about to step inside.

Marissa greeted her at the door, a sleek woman with sharp features and sharper heels. “You’re late,” she said, though Amara was certain she wasn’t.

“Traffic,” Amara lied.

Marissa gave her a cool once-over. “Mr. Cole dislikes tardiness. Don’t let it happen again.”

With that, she spun and led Amara down polished marble halls. Amara tried not to gape at the chandeliers, the art, the sheer silence that hummed through the air.

Finally, the assistant stopped outside the double doors. “He’ll see you now.”

Amara swallowed hard and stepped inside.

Damian Cole sat behind a desk that looked large enough to host a banquet. He didn’t look up immediately, pen scratching against paper. His suit was dark, his tie immaculate. Only when he finally lifted his gaze did Amara feel the weight of his attention, cool and assessing.

“Miss Blake.”

Her throat dried. “Mr. Cole.”

“You accepted the offer.”

“As you can see.”

A faint flicker of amusement ghosted across his mouth. “I expected you to refuse.”

“Trust me, so did I.”

He leaned back, studying her. “Why didn’t you?”

Her jaw tightened. Pride urged her to lie, but she forced the truth through clenched teeth. “Because money doesn’t argue with rent.”

Something shifted in his eyes - not sympathy, but recognition, maybe. The ghost of a man who understood burdens.

“Honesty,” he murmured. “Interesting.”

Amara bristled. “I’m not here to be interesting. I’m here to work.”

“Good.” He gestured to a stack of folders. “Then let’s begin.”

The hours blurred with instructions, schedules, endless tasks. By evening, Amara’s head spun with names and details she’d never remember. Still, she worked diligently, refusing to give Damian the satisfaction of seeing her falter.

When she finally stepped outside for air, the sun was sinking, painting the garden gold. Clara’s texts lit her phone - Proud of you. Don’t quit yet.

But before she could smile, a new voice cut through the quiet.

“Well, well. So this is the famous Amara.”

She turned. A woman stood at the edge of the terrace, elegance wrapped around her like a weapon. Hair glossy, dress tailored, eyes sharp and assessing.

Vanessa King.

Amara didn’t need an introduction. The engagement ring glittering on Vanessa’s finger spoke for itself.

And the icy smirk curving her lips promised one thing only: trouble.