The morning sun was barely crowning the horizon when Jamila stepped out of her private room at five-thirty sharp.
She wore the new, impeccably tailored dark uniform Alejandro had ordered for her—a sharp contrast to the faded, ill-fitting apron she had been wearing just twenty-four hours before.
Her wild halo of dark curls tied in a respectable bun.
When she pushed open the heavy swing doors of the main kitchen, the bustling morning chatter died instantly.
The air turned sub-zero. Dozens of eyes snapped toward her—kitchen staff, line cooks, and senior maids all paused mid-task.
Jamila felt the heavy weight of their stares, but she kept her spine straight and her chin high, walking toward the prep counters with smooth, deliberate steps.
"Look at her," a low, venomous whisper hissed from the dishwashing station.
"She wasn't even here two days before she spread her legs for Ferdinand," another maid muttered, not bothering to lower her voice.
"And now Mr. Alejandro has claimed her? Please. She's playing both brothers like a cheap whore."
"She's got them tearing each other apart in their own home," a senior cook chimed in with a bitter sneer. "A shameless little slut thinking she's special because the eldest heir brought her to the senior wing."
The words burned like acid, but Jamila didn't flinch. She had survived far harder things in Johannesburg than the petty jealousy of bitter servants.
Refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction, she picked up a silver tray, brewing Alejandro's dark coffee—pitch black, no sugar—and meticulously slicing fresh figs, dark grapes, and blood oranges.
With the tray balanced steadily on her palm, she turned on her heel and walked out of the kitchen, leaving the venomous whispers echoing behind her.
The quiet grand corridor leading to the east wing was bathed in soft morning light. Jamila kept her pace steady, her eyes focused ahead, until a shadow stepped out from the arched doorway of the family library, blocking her path entirely.
Ferdinand.
He was dressed in a half-unbuttoned linen shirt, his eyes bloodshot, smelling faintly of bourbon from the night before.
Jamila stopped two feet away, her pulse quickening, though her expression remained an impenetrable mask.
"Enjoying your new title?" Ferdinand sneered, his eyes slowly roving down her tailored uniform before locking onto her wild hair. His jaw twitched with raw, wounded ego. "You think you're clever, don't you? Hiding behind my brother."
"Excuse me, Mr. Garcia," Jamila said smoothly, her lilt cool and polite. "I have a tray to deliver."
"You can't hide behind Alejandro forever, Jamila," Ferdinand hissed, stepping closer until she could feel the volatile heat radiating off him. "He's using you to get under my skin. That's all you are to him—a tool.
And when he's done playing his little game, you'll be right back where you belong."
He shook his head, a dark, disbelieving laugh escaping his lips. "I still can't believe a worthless servant had the audacity to say no to me."
"Then start believing it," Jamila replied quietly, her dark eyes flashing with unyielding fire.
She didn't wait for his response. Side-stepping him with fluid grace, she walked past him, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Ferdinand turned, watching her scramble down the hallway with a toxic mixture of burning lust and pure hatred, his fists clenching at his sides as she disappeared into Alejandro's section of the house.
Jamila reached the grand double doors of Alejandro's private master suite. She took a deep, steadying breath to calm her racing pulse, knocked twice, and waited.
Silence answered from within.
Assuming he was in his adjoining study, she turned the heavy brass handle and pushed the door open, stepping inside. The room was massive—decorated in rich mahogany, dark marble, and deep charcoal velvet, smelling intoxicatingly of expensive cologne, fresh rain, and warm cedar.
The heavy door clicked shut behind her, and that was when she heard it—the faint sound of water running in the master bathroom, followed by the slide of a frosted glass door.
Before Jamila could pivot to set the tray down and leave, the bathroom door swung open, and steam billowed out into the cool bedroom air.
Alejandro stepped out.
Jamila's breath hitched in her throat, her feet instantly gluing to the rug.
He was wearing nothing but a pristine white towel wrapped low around his hips, clinging dangerously to the hard line of his waist. Droplets of water glistened against his golden-tan skin, trailing down the sculpted contours of his chest, carving past his razor-sharp abs, and disappearing into the dip of the towel. His dark hair was slicked back and wet, a few stray locks dripping onto his forehead, framing a jawline so sharp it looked carved from granite.
He was breathtakingly, dangerously handsome—a raw, muscular force of nature that filled the entire room.
Alejandro stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her. He didn't rush to cover himself or reach for a robe. Instead, his piercing green eyes locked onto hers through the fading mist of steam, glowing with an intense, unhurried heat.
The silence between them stretched, thick and suffocatingly hot. Jamila stood frozen, holding the silver tray, her gaze trapped by the sheer physical power of the man standing before her. Her pulse thundered in her ears, her chest rising and falling rapidly as an undeniable, electric current leaped across the space dividing them.
Alejandro took a slow, deliberate step toward her, the muscles in his chest and shoulders flexing with every movement, his green eyes burning right into her soul.
"You're right on time, Jamila," he murmured, his voice a low, husky growl that vibrated straight through her core.