Chapter 1

Amiya

The penthouse door slides open with a soft click as I swipe my card. Six in the morning, and the Richmond residence is already alive with activity. Not Riley yet, she'll be sleeping for another hour, but I can hear Alexander in his study, the muffled sound of his deep voice carrying through the halls as he barks legal jargon into his phone.

I step into the kitchen, morning light streaming through the beautifully spotless windows that frame Manhattan's skyline like a painting too perfect to be real. The familiar scents of fresh fruit in the bowl and artisanal bread I bought yesterday wrap around me like a hug. This kitchen, all gleaming marble and state-of-the-art appliances, has become more mine than Alexander's over the past three years.

"Where the hell are those depositions?" Alexander's voice booms from down the hall, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting his desk.

I shake my head and pull open the refrigerator. Alexander Richmond, always intense, always working. Always rich.

Five years ago, I was squeezing past neighbors in my mom's cramped Bronx apartment kitchen, dreaming of something bigger while stirring pots of collard greens and mac and cheese. Now I'm slicing organic vegetables on imported marble for a five-year-old's bento box. Life takes some wild turns.

The knife glides through a cucumber, my movements precise and practiced. Back then, I'd cook to escape, to drown out the arguments about past-due bills and the constant worry about keeping the lights on. Now I cook for Riley, watching her face light up when she tries something new I've made.

"That looks fancy for a kid's lunch," Alexander says, suddenly appearing in the doorway.

I don't jump anymore when he does this, materializing like some expensive cologne-scented ghost in his perfectly tailored suit. He threads his fingers through his thick dark hair as he heads to the fridge.

"Riley likes the star-shaped carrots," I reply, not looking up. "And she ate all her broccoli yesterday when I cut it like little trees."

Alexander grunts, pouring himself coffee from the pot I'd started. "Whatever works."

The silence settles between us as I continue preparing. This kitchen is where I feel most myself. Where my hands know exactly what to do. I fold a small note into Riley's lunchbox, drawing a little heart next to my name. The small rituals that build security for a child who deserves every ounce of stability I can provide.

As I slice bell peppers into thin strips, my mind drifts to Mama Ellie's, the restaurant I've sketched and planned in notebooks for years. I can almost smell the fusion of Caribbean spices and soul food classics, hear the jazz playing softly in the background. Tables filled with people passing plates, sharing stories. A place where food connects everyone.

Not some sterile Upper East Side establishment with tiny portions and bigger prices, but somewhere with heart. Somewhere real. Somewhere people would walk in and instantly feel at home, wrapped in the aromas of slow-cooked stews and freshly baked cornbread. The kind of place where regulars would have their usual tables and newcomers would leave as friends. Where food isn't just sustenance but a celebration, a connection to roots and heritage that run deeper than the foundations of any Manhattan skyscraper.

"You're making that face again," Alexander says, interrupting my daydream, his deep voice cutting through my thoughts like a warm knife through butter.

"What face?" I ask, blinking myself back to reality, to this gleaming kitchen that costs more than my entire apartment.

"The one where you're a million miles away." He leans against the counter, studying me over his coffee mug, those piercing blue eyes taking in every detail. The morning light catches on his jawline, highlighting the stubble he hasn't yet shaved. "Planning your great escape from us?"

There's something in his tone I can't quite place. Not quite teasing, not quite serious. A hint of vulnerability maybe, which seems impossible coming from a man who probably handles multi-millionaire clients before breakfast without breaking a sweat.

"Just thinking about recipes," I lie, closing Riley's lunchbox with a snap that feels oddly final. My dreams of Mama Ellie's stay pressed between the pages of my notebook, safe from scrutiny or, worse, dismissal. Some dreams aren't meant to be shared with your boss, especially one who could replace you with a snap of his fingers and not think twice about it. A man whose world is so far removed from mine that sometimes I wonder if we're even breathing the same air.

Alexander sets his coffee mug down with unusual carefulness, running his thumb along the rim. For a moment, he looks less like the powerhouse attorney and more like a tired father.

"I got a call from my lawyer last night," he says, voice dropping lower, almost as if saying the words too loudly might make them more real. "Lilah's pushing for another custody hearing."

His words hang in the kitchen air like something physical, something cold and heavy that sucks the warmth right out of the gleaming marble and stainless steel surroundings. I pause my breakfast prep, fingers still wrapped around a spatula, the sizzle of the eggs in the pan suddenly too loud in the silence that follows. The mention of Lilah always brings a heaviness to the penthouse, like storm clouds gathering on the horizon, threatening to unleash chaos on the peace we've carefully constructed for Riley's sake.

"What's her angle this time?" I ask, keeping my voice steady even as my stomach tightens into a hard knot of anxiety. I've been around long enough to know that Lilah Francis doesn't make moves without calculating every possible advantage. And somehow, those calculations never seem to include what might actually be best for her daughter.

"Some bullshit about my work schedule creating an unstable environment." He presses his palms flat against the counter, shoulders tensing beneath his expensive suit. "Meanwhile, she's the one who couldn't stay sober long enough to remember Riley's second birthday."

I've never met Lilah Francis in person, but I've pieced together enough from photos, stories, and the aftermath of her hurricane-like presence in their lives. A socialite with champagne tastes and an appetite for chaos, who walked out when motherhood proved less glamorous than expected. Who now swings back into their lives whenever it suits her image or her latest boyfriend's expectations.

"Riley barely mentions her anymore after those supervised visits," I say, turning back to the stove to hide the anger flashing across my face.

Alexander's laugh holds no humor. "That's because you've given her something Lilah never could. Consistency. Safety." His voice catches slightly. "Christ, Amiya, if you hadn't been here these past three years..."

The vulnerability in his words stops me cold. Alexander Richmond doesn't do vulnerability. He does commanding courtrooms and crushing opponents and carrying his daughter to bed when she falls asleep watching Disney movies. He doesn't do this. This raw honesty at six in the morning in a sun-drenched kitchen.

"Riley will be fine," I say automatically. "You're a good father."

"I'm a father who works eighty-hour weeks and wouldn't know the difference between a fever and a temper tantrum without you translating." He looks at me directly now, those blue eyes intense. "You've been the one constant in her life while I've been fighting Lilah's bullshit custody claims and trying to keep my career from imploding."

The spatula feels suddenly inadequate in my hand, too small for the weight of this conversation.

"That's my job," I say, though we both know it's more than that.

"No, your job was childcare. What you've given Riley—what you've given us—goes way beyond any contract." He pushes away from the counter, running a hand through his hair. "I just... thank you. For standing by her. For being the stability she deserves."

The sincerity in his voice wraps around me, unexpectedly warm. "Riley deserves to be with you," I say firmly. "I've seen how Lilah affects her after those visits. How quiet she gets. How she checks to make sure you're still here the next morning."

Alexander's jaw clenches. "Tell me honestly. Am I crazy for fighting this hard? For putting Riley through this?"

"No," I answer without hesitation. "You're fighting for your daughter. I've seen enough to know you're exactly where she belongs." I meet his gaze steadily. "And I'll tell that to any judge who asks."

Something shifts in Alexander's expression. Relief, maybe, or gratitude. For a heartbeat, we're not employer and employee but simply two people united in caring for a little girl who deserves better than the chaos her mother leaves in her wake.

"Pancakes are burning," he says softly, breaking the moment.

I turn back to the stove, feeling strangely breathless. "I'll make more."

In my peripheral, I notice how Alexander tilts his head, listening to the faint sounds coming from down the hallway. "I think Riley's up," he says, setting his coffee mug down. "I'll go check on her."

He disappears from the kitchen, his footsteps fading as he moves through the penthouse. The pancake batter sizzles as it hits the hot pan. I focus on making the perfect circles, watching them bubble slightly before flipping them with practiced precision. The simple rhythm of cooking centers me, bringing me back to the present moment.

"Daddy, I want the butterfly ones!" Riley's voice carries down the hall, bright and clear despite having just woken up.

"Amiya's making pancakes, princess. Let's get you dressed first."

I smile to myself, reaching for the butterfly-shaped cookie cutter I keep in the drawer specifically for these moments. Riley's been obsessed with butterflies since we visited the Natural History Museum last month. The way her eyes had widened at the butterfly conservatory, her small hand clutching mine as she'd whispered, "They're dancing, Amiya!"

I press the cookie cutter into a perfectly cooked pancake, creating the butterfly shape she loves. As I work, I can't help but notice the way my heart had jumped when Alexander thanked me earlier, the intensity in those blue eyes that sometimes catch me off guard when I least expect it.

The man is unfairly attractive. That's just an objective fact.

The tailored suits that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. The way his voice drops lower when he speaks about something important. How his entire face transforms when Riley runs to him after work, catching her mid-jump like she weighs nothing.

I shake my head, arranging berries around the butterfly pancakes. These are dangerous thoughts. Alexander Richmond is my boss. A very wealthy, very powerful man who lives in a completely different world than mine. A world where nannies don't cross lines with their employers, especially not single fathers fighting custody battles.

"Professional boundaries," I mutter to myself, drizzling maple syrup in a small container on the side of Riley's plate, just the way she likes it.

Three years I've worked here, maintaining those boundaries carefully. Three years of holiday bonuses and polite thank-yous and the occasional moment like this morning, when the walls between employer and employee thin just enough to remind me that there's a real person behind the power suits and legal jargon.

But that's all they can be. Moments. Nothing more.

I've worked too hard to get where I am, saving every penny toward Mama Ellie's. I can't risk my professional reputation, my reference, my entire career path on something as foolish as attraction. Besides, men like Alexander don't end up with women from the Bronx who grew up counting pennies and learning to stretch groceries to last the month.

I arrange Riley's breakfast plate with artistic precision, adding a smiley face of sliced strawberries next to the butterfly pancakes. This job is the stepping stone to my dream, not a romantic fantasy.

Riley's excited voice announces her arrival as Alexander carries her into the kitchen, her small arms wrapped around his neck. Her hair is still tousled from sleep, her unicorn pajama top slightly askew.

"Butterflies!" she squeals when she sees her plate, wiggling to be put down.

Alexander sets her carefully in her chair, his eyes meeting mine over Riley's head. There's something like gratitude there, maybe even something more, but I look away quickly.

This is my job. Riley is my priority. And my dreams are waiting for me beyond this penthouse, beyond these dangerous thoughts about a man who is nothing more than my employer.

No matter how good he looks in the morning light.