CHAPTER 2: THE TRIBECA RULES

The Uber ride from Flatbush to Tribeca had cost Jasmine thirty-two dollars—money she practically had to scrape from the bottom of her purse in wrinkled single bills. As the car pulled up to the sleek, unassuming canopy of the Greenwich Street high-rise, Jasmine looked up at the towering glass structure and took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Oya, baby, let’s do this,” she whispered to her stomach, smoothing down the front of her oversized olive-green utility dress.

She was carrying her entire life in two battered plaid laundry bags—the cheap, iconic woven bags Nigerians affectionately call “Ghana-Must-Go.” Carrying them into one of the most expensive residential lobbies in Manhattan felt entirely illegal. The doorman, a man dressed so sharply he could have passed for a diplomat, looked at her bags, then at her braids, and raised an eyebrow.

“Jasmine Alvarez. For Mr. Cole,” she said, holding her chin high.

His expression softened instantly into a polite nod. “Ah, yes. The new live-in. Let me take those up for you, miss.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jasmine said, keeping her tone sweet. Thank God, she thought internally. If she had to drag those heavy bags up to the sixty-second floor herself, her lower back would have officially resigned from her body.

When the private elevator doors chimed open directly inside Damian Cole’s penthouse, the sheer luxury of the space hit her all over again. The floors were wide-plank white oak, the art on the walls looked like it belonged in the MoMA, and the floor-to-ceiling windows offered a dizzying view of the Hudson River.

Standing in the center of the massive living room was Damian.

He was already dressed for a high-powered board meeting: a crisp, pale-blue shirt, tailored navy trousers, and a sharp charcoal vest. He was frantically buttoning his cuffs while shouting instructions into a bluetooth earpiece.

“No, tell the Tokyo team we aren’t delaying the acquisition. If they can’t sign by Friday, we pull out,” he snapped, his voice carrying that icy, authoritative edge. He glanced up, his piercing blue-gray eyes locking onto Jasmine. He didn’t smile. He just gave her a curt nod and pointed toward a long, marble dining table. “Hold on,” he muttered into the earpiece, tapping it to mute the call.

“Good morning, Mr. Cole,” Jasmine said, stepping out of the elevator. Her borrowed flats didn't squeak today—she had rubbed a bit of bar soap on the soles before leaving Brooklyn, a classic mainland trick.

“Jasmine. You’re on time. Good,” Damian said, stepping toward the table where a thick, leather-bound folder was waiting. “Lila is still asleep. She had a rough night. Before I head out to the office, we need to establish the ground rules. I don't tolerate ambiguity in my house.”

Jasmine walked over, keeping her hands neatly clasped in front of her stomach. “I understand, sir.”

Damian flipped the folder open. “This is the household manual. Rule number one: absolute discretion. You do not talk to the press, you do not post photos of Lila on social media, and you do not invite anyone over. No roommates, no family, no friends. This penthouse is a fortress.”

“Of course. I have no intention of bringing anyone here.” I don't even have the energy to entertain anyway, she added silently.

Rule number two: Lila’s routine is sacred. Breakfast at eight, speech therapy at ten, park at two. If she refuses to eat, you find a way to make her eat. You saw how she responded to you on Friday. I expect that same level of compliance every day.” He looked up, his gaze boring into hers. “I am paying you a premium, Jasmine. I expect premium results.”

“I will do my absolute best, Mr. Cole. She is a sweet girl.”

“Rule number three,” Damian continued, his voice dropping a fraction, becoming even colder. “Boundaries. My private office and the master suite are completely off-limits. You do not enter them unless there is a fire or a medical emergency. And lastly—personal space. Keep our interactions strictly professional.”

Jasmine felt a sudden, ironic sting in her chest. Professional. If only he knew that the dynamic between them had crossed every professional boundary in existence five months ago in a darkened hotel suite.

“Understood,” she said softly.

Damian nodded, seemingly satisfied with her compliance. He reached down to grab his silk tie from the table, draping it around his neck. He began to loop it, his fingers moving rapidly, but his bluetooth earpiece suddenly chimed. He tapped it, his focus immediately fracturing.

“Yeah, I’m here. What do you mean the regulatory filings are missing? I personally approved them last Tuesday!” Damian’s voice rose in frustration. He was trying to knot the tie with one hand while holding his iPad with the other, his brow furrowing deeply. The silk bunched up, twisting awkwardly into a messy, uneven lump at his collar. “Dammit,” he muttered under his breath, his jaw clenching as he fumbled with the fabric.

Jasmine watched him struggle. He looked so genuinely stressed, so overwhelmed by the weight of his empire, that an old, buried reflex suddenly took over her body.

Before her brain could scream a warning, her feet moved.

She stepped directly into his personal space.

“Let me,” Jasmine murmured softly.

Damian froze. He stopped talking into his earpiece mid-sentence.

Jasmine’s hands flew up to his collar. Her fingers, dark against the crisp pale-blue silk of his shirt, expertly unraveled his messy knot. Her movements were fluid, operating entirely on pure, terrifying muscle memory. Five months ago, at the end of that wild, hazy night, she had stood in front of him by the hotel window, gently doing up his buttons and straightening his tie while he mumbled sleepily against her hair. She knew exactly how he liked his knot—a tight, double-Windsor, sitting perfectly flush against the throat.

She smoothed the silk down, her knuckles accidentally brushing the warm skin of his collarbone.

A heavy, suffocating silence descended on the room. The scent of his woody cologne washed over her, identical to the night of the gala.

Suddenly, a massive, warm hand clamped down around her wrist.

Jasmine gasped, her eyes snapping up.

Damian was staring down at her. His blue-gray eyes weren't cold anymore—they were burning, intense, and incredibly sharp. His grip on her wrist wasn't painful, but it was unyielding, holding her hands exactly where they were, resting against his chest. She could feel the steady, rapid thumping of his heart beneath her palms.

“What are you doing?” Damian asked, his voice a dangerously low, gravelly whisper.

Jasmine’s breath hitched. She realized with a jolt of pure panic what she had just done. A normal nanny, on her very first day, would never boldly step up and fix her billionaire boss’s tie with such intimate familiarity.

“Chai, Jasmine, you don enter soup today,” her mind screamed in frantic pidgin.

“I—I was just helping, sir,” she stammered, her voice shaking as she tried to pull her wrist back. He didn't let go immediately. “You looked rushed. I’m sorry. It was a reflex.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed into a piercing squint, studying every single line of her face. His gaze dropped to her lips, then snapped back up to her dark eyes, searching for something. A heavy cloud of confusion and deep suspicion settled over his features.

“How did you know how to tie that?” he demanded softly, his thumb unconsciously pressing against the pulse point on her wrist. He could feel her heart racing like a trapped bird. “That's a very specific, traditional knot. My father taught me that. I don't see people do it that way often.”

Jasmine’s mind raced, frantically searching for a plausible lie. “I—I used to assist a fashion designer back in Lagos, Mr. Cole. We did high-end menswear. I’ve tied hundreds of them. Please, excuse my forwardness. It won’t happen again.”

Damian didn't blink. He kept staring at her for three agonizing seconds, the air between them thick with a strange, electrical tension. He knew she was lying, or at least, he knew there was something she wasn't saying. The familiar pull he felt toward her whenever she got close was driving him insane. It was a ghost of a memory, an echo of a voice, but he just couldn't place the puzzle pieces together.

Slowly, his fingers loosened, releasing her wrist.Jasmine immediately stepped back two large paces, clutching her hands against her loose dress, trying to shield her stomach from his analytical gaze.

Damian cleared his throat, his expression instantly freezing back into a mask of stone, though his eyes remained dangerously alert. He adjusted his collar himself, pulling the jacket straight.

“Remember rule number three, Jasmine,” he said, his voice flat but warning. “Professional boundaries. Keep your distance.”

“Yes, Mr. Cole. I apologize,” she whispered, looking down at the floor.

He didn’t say another word. He grabbed his briefcase from the table, tapped his earpiece back to life, and walked straight into the private elevator. The doors closed, taking him away, but the heavy, suspicious weight of his final gaze lingered in the room like smoke.

Jasmine collapsed onto one of the dining chairs, her legs completely giving out. She placed both hands over her belly, her heart thumping against her ribs.

“That was too close,” she breathed, her forehead breaking out in a nervous sweat. “Too close.”

“Jazzy?”

A tiny, sleepy voice called out from the hallway.

Jasmine looked up to see Lila standing there, wearing mismatched unicorn pajamas, rubbing her big brown eyes with a tiny fist.

The sight of the little girl instantly washed away Jasmine's panic. She forced a warm, bright smile onto her face and stood up. “Good morning, my princess. Guess what? I have fresh blueberries today. Shall we make those pancakes?”

Lila’s face lit up, a tiny, rare smile breaking through her morning groggy look. She ran across the hardwood floor and wrapped her little arms tightly around Jasmine's knees.

Jasmine hugged her back, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. She was safe for now, protected by the love of a lonely three-year-old. But as she looked toward the private elevator, she knew she was playing a dangerous game. Damian Cole was a genius, and his suspicion had officially been sparked.

It was only a matter of time before the billionaire did the math.