THE BILLIONAIRE'S UNWANTED CLEANER

Collected.

Chapter 5: Collected

Candy’s POV

The lock clicks.

Metal into metal. A small sound. It hits my chest like a gunshot.

Mustapha Dieon just walked out. Left me standing in Mr. Dan’s correction closet with the buzzing bulb and the smell of old bleach. He told Dan I keep my job. That I report to _him_ tonight. Directly.

“Like mine,” he said.

The words loop in my head and refuse to make sense. My brain lags three seconds behind my body. Did that happen? Did the richest, coldest man in Sweden just claim a cleaner who ruined his three-thousand-dollar suit?

I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor. Knees to chest. Arms wrapped tight. The room is too small. The air is too thick. It still smells like him. Dieon No. 7. Dark and expensive, under the wine and under the bleach.

He was that close.

One meter when he stepped in. Half a meter when he plucked the rose petal from my hair. I could see the fleck of gold in his dark eyes. The small scar above his left eyebrow. The way his jaw tightened when he said my name.

“Candy Monroe.”

Not “girl.” Not “staff.” My name. Full. Like he tested it and decided it fit.

My face burns. When he leaned in to say “Angel,” I felt his breath on my skin. When he said “Stand up straight,” I obeyed because my body forgot how to do anything else.

God. I was close enough to kiss him.

The thought chokes me. One lean forward and my mouth would’ve hit his jaw. One reckless inch and—

I make a sound. Half laugh, half sob. Bury my face in my hands. Stupid. Dangerous. He’s Mustapha Dieon. CEO. Mafia king. The man whose name moves stock markets. And I’m Candy Monroe. Cleaner. Debtor. Girl with wine-stained shoes and holes in her gloves.

He could erase my debt without noticing. He could have me fired, arrested, disappeared with one word.

And yet, for ten seconds in this closet, he looked at _me_. Not the mess. Me.

The smile starts before I can stop it. Stupid. Shaky. It pulls at my cheeks until they ache. I’m smiling where I should be crying because I’m one mistake away from everything falling apart.

But he didn’t fire me.

He said “mine.”

For three years I’ve moved through these buildings without being seen. Part of the marble. Part of the air. Part of nothing.

Tonight, the man who owns everything looked at me like I mattered.

I laugh quietly, because if I don’t laugh I’ll cry. Tears make you weak. Weak gets you hurt.

So I smile at the buzzing bulb. I smile at the cracked paint. I smile because my body doesn’t know what else to do with the whiplash of being claimed instead of discarded.

Nine hours left until they come for me if I don’t pay. This job was oxygen. Now this man is oxygen and I don’t know which one will kill me faster.

The door swings open again.

Not Mustapha.

Taller. Easier smile. Same black suit, same sharp jawline, but where Mustapha is a blade, Blue is a grin with teeth. He leans on the doorframe, wine glass in one hand, red liquid catching the light.

“Well, well,” he says, drawing it out. “The girl who made the iceberg blink.”

My smile drops. Fast.

I scramble to my feet. The chair scrapes behind me. My legs wobble. I grip the back of it so I don’t fall. “I—I should get back to work—”

“Relax, Angel.” He tastes the word like it’s a joke he’s been waiting to tell. “That’s what he called you, right?”

My face burns. Different heat this time. Embarrassment. Exposure.

Blue steps in and closes the door. Soft click. Now it’s just us and the buzzing bulb.

“You know what happens to girls Mustapha Dieon notices?” He twirls the glass. Wine sloshes but doesn’t spill. His hands are too steady. “They get collected.”

The word lands heavy. Same word Mustapha used. “Like mine.”

Blue takes another step. Then another. Stops a meter from me. Close enough that I see the laugh lines at his eyes. Close enough to see there’s nothing soft behind them.

“He doesn’t share,” Blue says. Voice low. Warning now. “He doesn’t date. He doesn’t do flings. He owns. Everything he touches becomes Dieon property. People. Buildings. Companies. Girls.”

My throat closes. My hands shake behind my back.

“The last girl who got that look from him,” Blue continues, casual, like he’s discussing the weather, “her family’s shipping business collapsed in a week. ‘Unrelated market crash,’ the papers said.”

I swallow. Nothing there. No spit. No words.

“‘Unrelated accident’ when her brother’s car went off the road,” Blue says, softer. “‘Unrelated coincidence’ when her mother’s medical records got leaked.”

He’s not threatening me with a blade. He’s threatening me with patterns. With history. With what happens when Mustapha gets interested.

“Don’t confuse attention for kindness, sweetheart,” Blue says. The smile returns, gentle. Almost sad. “He’s a mafia king. Remember that when he looks at you like you’re air. Air runs out. Air gets replaced.”

My heart hammers. Blue’s voice worms into my head, showing me pictures I don’t want to see. Families broken. Lives erased. All because Mustapha glanced their way.

I’m scared. Not of the debt right now. Of Blue. Of how calm he is. Of how sure he sounds.

Footsteps.

Heavy. Measured. Coming down the hall.

Blue hears it too. His smile sharpens. “Speak of the devil.”

The door opens.

Mustapha stands there. Black suit. Wine stain still on his cuff, dried dark pink. No tie. Top button undone. He looks like a war that ended five minutes ago.

His eyes move from Blue, to me, to my hands behind my back. Two seconds. It feels like a verdict.

Silence. One heartbeat. Two.

Mustapha doesn’t look at Blue. He looks at me. “Candy.”

My name in his mouth makes my pulse jump. Like it’s trying to leave my chest and land in his hand.

Blue laughs, soft. Familiar. “Just explaining the rules to her, brother. Since you’re so generous tonight.”

Mustapha steps forward. He doesn’t touch Blue. He steps between us like it’s instinct. His shoulder blocks me from Blue’s view. A wall.

“London account,” Mustapha says. Quiet. Final. The voice that ends conversations. “You touch her again and you lose it.”

Blue’s smile stays, but the warmth leaves his eyes. What’s left is cold. Calculating. “Understood, Boss.”

He downs the rest of his wine. Sets the empty glass on the small table. “Just looking out for you. Wouldn’t want you collecting strays again.”

The word “again” hangs in the air. Loaded. Mustapha’s jaw ticks once. That’s all.

Blue leaves. Door closes behind him. Soft. No drama. Just the quiet of a man who lost this round.

And then it’s just us.

Mustapha and me in a closet that feels smaller. The bulb buzzes louder. My breathing is louder. His is steady. Always steady.

He turns back to me. Still that close. Close enough to see the wine stain on his shirt. Close enough to smell him over the bleach. Close enough to kiss.

My face burns. Third time in five minutes. I hate that he sees it. I hate that my body reacts to him like he’s oxygen.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

Not “sir.” Not “boss.” Just that.

The question breaks something in me. Nobody asks me that. Men like him don’t ask. They tell.

I should nod and wait for orders.

Instead my face burns because he’s close enough to kiss again, and I’m still smiling, and Blue was right about one thing: Mustapha Dieon just put himself between me and a threat.

“Answer me, Candy,” he says. Lower. Like he’s pulling the words out.

I nod. Once. Sharp. “Yes, sir.”

His eyes flick to my mouth. Then back to my eyes. “Don’t call me sir when it’s just us.”

My brain stalls. “Then—then what do I call you?”

“Mustapha,” he says. Like a gift. Like a weapon. “When it’s just us.”

Four syllables that feel like fire in my mouth.

He holds out his hand. Palm up. Big. Clean. A king’s hand. A killer’s hand.

“Come,” he says. “Glass needs refilling.”

I stare at his hand. Warm. Mine are cold. Always cold.

If I take it, I’m his. If I don’t, Blue wins. If I don’t, they win tomorrow.

My fingers hover. My heart hammers. “Like mine,” he said. Mine.

I place my hand in his. Skin to skin. His is warm. Mine is cold. But the moment we touch, the cold stops mattering.

His fingers close around mine. Not tight. Not cruel. Firm. Certain. Like he knows exactly how much pressure to use.

The door closes behind us. The bulb dies. I’m walking out of the correction room holding the hand of the most dangerous man in Sweden, smiling like an i***t because for one second, when he asked if I was okay, I felt like I was.

Nine hours left.

But right now, all I can think about is his thumb brushing over my knuckles once, twice, like he’s counting my pulse.

And failing.

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