Until The Truth Burns

I slowed down as I neared home. The house was unusually quiet, missing the soft jazz my mother usually played in the evenings. I turned the knob — unlocked. The second strange thing.

I was about to call for my mum when I saw it. Bright red seeping into the carpet beside her lifeless body. A few feet away, in the dining room doorway, lay my father. Also lifeless.

With trembling hands, I picked up the note in his palm.

“I will be watching.”

I stumbled back, and before the weight of it could sink in, someone grabbed me and I screamed—

“NOOOO!!”

I jolted awake, screaming for the third night in a row. Sweat clung to my forehead, the bedsheet damp. I turned on the small light above my bed and saw my terrified reflection in the dresser mirror—wild hair, wide eyes, dry lips.

I poured a glass of water. As I drank, the memory replayed again, as it always did.

The night my parents died.

For two years I’d tried to understand why anyone would kill them in such a cold, cruel way. My mum was a preschool teacher—sweetest woman on earth. My dad, a financial accountant—great with numbers, terrible with dad jokes. There was no reason, no link, no explanation.

I’d made a vow at their graves: I would find whoever did this, no matter what.

Since then, everything had fallen apart. I went from one of the top students in my class to barely scraping by. I lost my dream job before it even began. The bank repossessed the house. I took part-time work just to finish school… then got fired from the grocery store because apparently helping people who couldn’t afford food wasn’t part of the job description.

Now at 24, unemployed again, I prayed my landlady hadn’t reached her final snapping point. Judging by her tone lately, she probably had.

I checked the time. 3:15 a.m. No point trying to sleep again. I opened my battered laptop and scrolled through job listings, desperate to find anyone willing to hire me.

Then, like an answered prayer, I found a job opening for a cleaner at Lockewood Heights. Not exactly financial analysis, but at this point, work was work. Pathetic? No. Pathetic is my ex Liam, who thought cheating on me was a good idea. I left before he even realized—after bitch-slapping the hell out of him first, of course.

Minutes after applying, I got a reply. Immediate response? Okay, universe, I see you. I answered at the speed of light.

Of course I was free at 9 a.m. What else would I be doing? Finding another man who pretends to be perfect until he reveals he can’t locate my hotspot to save his life? Hard pass.

After confirming, I rummaged through my clothes for something halfway decent. Even if it was a cleaning job, I needed to look presentable unless I wanted my belongings decorating the sidewalk. I settled on a baby-blue shirt, navy pencil skirt, and flats. Then texted my best friend Meghan before she found 300 ways to punish me for not updating her. If only she used that same energy on leaving her abusive boyfriend. Shame.

Bored, I googled Lockewood Heights. One click on Images and—holy cow. The place was stunning. And the CEO? Damien Lockewood looked like he fell straight from hell.

Sin personified.

Jet-black hair spun from midnight. A height that suggested neck pain was invented because of him. A jawline sharp enough to slice glass. Eyes cold enough to read your browser history and judge you instantly.

I blinked just to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. Nope. Real. Running a multimillion-dollar company while looking like the final boss of heartbreak.

Honestly, I might work for free if I could see that kind of face every day. Keyword: might. Rent didn’t care about abs or jawlines. And speaking of abs—this man looked like he lived in the gym and lifted small planets for fun.

Of course, delusion reminded me Lockewood Heights had twenty floors. I could be on any of them. Even the dusty storage rooms. A girl could dream, though.

I set my alarm for 6 a.m. and went to sleep.

By morning, I stood in front of my potential workplace. The building was extravagant—glass, marble, and ego. Intimidating, sure, but so was my landlady, and I’d survived her.

Inside, the receptionist greeted me with a polite smile. When I said I was there for the cleaner interview, sympathy flashed in her eyes before she directed me to a nearby room.

An older woman sat inside and motioned for me to sit. After the usual questions, she launched into a speech.

“Cleanliness, punctuality, and discretion,” she emphasized, like I was applying for MI6 instead of a mop.

I nodded like someone who had her life together.

“Your shift starts at 6:30 a.m. You’ll report to the CEO’s floor daily. He values his privacy. A LOT.”

The words CEO’s floor echoed dramatically in my skull.

“As in… the CEO?” I asked.

Her expression tightened. “Yes. Mr. Damien Lockewood. Is that a problem?”

Only if spontaneous cardiac arrest counted.

“No, ma’am,” I said quickly.

By the time I left, my head was spinning. Out of all the offices in the city, I’d somehow ended up with front-row access to the man my browser history now recognized on sight.

The next morning, my alarm went off at 5 a.m. I got dressed, tied my hair back, and grabbed the earliest subway, clutching my coffee like my life depended on it.

At 6:15, I stood in front of an elevator labeled: Top Floor — Executive Wing.

The doors opened and I stepped into another world. Marble floors. Air that smelled like expensive indifference. Silence that made you want to apologize for breathing.

And then I saw him.

Damien Lockewood.

In the flesh.

He stood by the windows, phone in hand, suit jacket off, white shirt crisp. Morning light hit his jet-black hair like even the sun respected him. For a second, I forgot why I was there.

Then his eyes met mine.

Cold. Sharp. Calculating.

I opened my mouth to introduce myself, but he beat me to it.

“You’re in my way,” he said flatly, with the warmth of a corporate memo.

“I—I’m Tanya,” I stammered. “The new clea—”

“Great.” He cut me off. “Then clean. And next time, knock before entering my wing.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. “I didn’t know you were going to be—”

“Now you do.” His voice was deep, the kind used for luxury car commercials and bad decisions.

He gave me one more bored glance before slipping on his jacket and walking past me, leaving behind expensive cologne and the sudden urge to throw my mop at him.

For a moment, I just stood there, mop in hand, caught between humiliation and disbelief. The man I’d drooled over twelve hours earlier had dismissed me like I was a smudge on the marble.

And that’s when it hit me.

Damien Lockewood — with all his jet-black perfection and piercing blue eyes — was a certified, grade-A asshole.

Oh, shoot me now.