THEIR BROKEN MATE

CHAPTER 3-SAMILA

Navigating the labyrinthine quest for an available parking space within the vicinity of one of the most towering edifices in the locale metamorphosed into a strenuous endeavor, a testament to the opulence that evidently permeated the lives of the denizens who inhabited apartments within this precinct. The affluence on display, manifesting in these towering residences, was a conspicuous testament to their financial prowess.

Despite my time-consciousness, an almost involuntary pause seized me, an intermission between the race against the clock. My eyes, widened in amazement, naturally gravitated towards the colossal skyscraper, its sheer grandeur rendering me momentarily awestruck. "Wow. Just wow," I muttered to myself, entranced by the awe-inspiring sight that loomed before me.

Eventually, by some miraculous twist of fate or perhaps mere perseverance, I managed to secure a vacant parking slot, not too distant from the formidable architectural behemoth. A leisurely five-minute stroll back to the grand lobby awaited me, providing an opportunity for introspection amidst this bastion of extravagance.

As I traversed the well-kept pathway leading into the lobby, my steps guided me to a security office conspicuously denoted as "doorman." Standing sentinel at this administrative post was an elderly gentleman, whose distinguished appearance was accentuated by a mane of pepper-and-salt hair. His visage was adorned with an amicable countenance, his lips curving into a genial, soft smile as I approached.

"Excuse me," I began, and my utterance punctuated the hush of the room, coaxing his gaze away from the newspaper he had been perusing. "Yes," he responded, a twinkle of curiosity dancing in his eyes.

I introduced myself, "Hi, I am Samila Davis, Mr. Jones' recently appointed housekeeper. Could you kindly provide directions to his apartment?"

In response to my inquiry, the elder gentleman was quick to extend his courteousness. "Hi, please wait for a moment. Let me inform Mr. Jones of your arrival," he said, his voice imbued with warmth and amiability. With practiced finesse, he reached for the phone and dialed a number, met almost instantly with a responsive acknowledgment.

As the doorman conversed with Mr. Jones on the other end of the line in hushed tones, I occupied myself by perusing the lobby's opulent surroundings. The desk at which the doorman diligently stood was strategically positioned right in front of the grand glass door entrance, exuding an aura of executive authority. The wood, or what I surmised to be mahogany, harmoniously blended with the surrounding glass elements, endowing it with the aesthetic charm of a professional office booth.

Potted plants adorned both flanks of the doorman's station, their verdant allure suggesting their authenticity, casting an air of nature amidst this urban enclave. The expansive expanse of the lobby was swathed in plush, crimson carpets that offered a soft landing to the steps of its affluent denizens. Gaze sweeping across the expanse, I couldn't help but notice the several tasteful paintings adorning the walls, adding an element of artistry to the ambiance.

As I continued to absorb the luxurious grandeur that enveloped me, I couldn't help but ponder the extraordinary privilege of those who called this place home. Their lives were undoubtedly a tapestry of luxury, woven together with threads of prosperity and extravagance, creating a masterpiece of opulence unparalleled in its grandeur.

As I stood there, time seemed to slip through my fingers like fine grains of sand, leaving me caught in a mesmerizing liminal space. The doorman, ever so polite and professional, gingerly interrupted my reverie, his voice a gentle, guiding current in the river of my wandering thoughts and admiration. "Please follow me, Ms. Davis," he uttered, extracting me from the depths of my trance-like contemplations.

With a hint of uncertainty, I hesitated, attempting to recall if I had glimpsed a name tag adorning his impeccably attired form. My hesitant words formed a halting melody as I inquired, "I, um, Mr...?"

In response, a genial smile graced his countenance, and he introduced himself as "Flaize," an utterance that danced with the rhythm of a nod. "Sorry, Mr. Flaize..." I began, but my protocol-conscious escort swiftly corrected me, urging a more informal rapport. "Flaize. Just Flaize. We will be working together, so please, call me Flaize."

"Alright, Flaize," I replied, my tongue finding newfound ease in the casual address. "Call me Samila."

As the conversation ebbed, I realized I had momentarily lost the thread of my previous inquiry. "So, Samila," Flaize prompted, urging me to recall my unfinished thought.

I stumbled over my words, unsure of my query. "I, ummm... Where are you taking me? I thought the elevators were in that direction," I noted, my finger pointing toward a nearby sign indicating the location of the elevators.

Acknowledging my observation, Flaize elucidated, "Yes, the elevators are in that direction, but Mr. Jones has requested that you ascend via the private elevator. It leads directly to his office."

We approached a door that had escaped my notice until this moment. Flaize deftly retrieved a card from his pocket, effortlessly swiping it along a panel adjacent to the door, which in turn ushered forth the elevator's melodious chime.

Stepping into the elevator, Flaize navigated a series of numerical inputs before graciously stepping out and regarding me with a courteous yet expectant gaze. The door yawned open, and he gestured for me to embark on this solitary journey. "In you go, Samila," he urged. "Mr. Jones awaits you on this momentous first day of your new role. Best of luck."

With Flaize's gentle ushering, I embarked upon the elevator's voyage, its doors closing to encapsulate me in solitude. As the elevator began its ascent, a burgeoning curiosity sprouted in my mind. Would this routine of card-and-code procedures be a daily pilgrimage? The elevator itself was a marvel, a sensory tapestry of opulence: a mirror-graced wall, two opaque panels enveloping me, and on the opposing side, an expansive floor-to-ceiling window, a voyeuristic portal to the sprawling urban landscape, bestowing a tantalizing glimpse into the city's hustle and bustle.

As I ascended to higher floors of the building, the vista that unfolded before my eyes was nothing short of breathtaking. Gazing out over the cityscape from my elevated vantage point, I couldn't help but be captivated by the sheer splendor that stretched out before me. The urban landscape below sparkled with a mesmerizing array of lights, casting an enchanting glow across the night.

Regrettably, my reverie was abruptly interrupted as the elevator came to an abrupt halt, and I disembarked with a tinge of apprehension. In my mind, I had envisaged a labyrinthine hallway replete with numerous doors, necessitating a convoluted search for the specific one I sought. However, to my immense relief, there was just one solitary door a mere few paces to my right.

Approaching the door, I made a concerted effort to bolster my resolve before initiating a knock. My desire for this job was undeniable, and I had already traversed a considerable distance in the arduous interview process. Yet, a lingering unease lingered. It intensified as I drew closer to the door and was met with the unexpected growl of a dog. "A dog? Nobody apprised me that my prospective employer possessed a canine companion," I ruminated.

Clad in impeccably tailored black trousers and a silk blouse thoughtfully selected by my friend Lea a few months prior, I couldn't help but feel a palpable nervousness. Despite the professional attire, the prospect of meeting my new boss still daunted me. What if, to my chagrin, he deemed me an unsuitable fit before my employment even commenced? At the very least, I could console myself with the knowledge that I had indeed come this far, a feat that could be ascribed to a select few.

After psyching myself up for the impending encounter, I tentatively raised my arm to deliver the long-awaited knock. It was at that precise moment that the door swung open with startling abruptness. Initially taken aback, my mind rapidly processed the sight that met my eyes – a half-naked man, barely concealed by what appeared to be a towel, which tantalizingly veiled his most intimate regions.

For a split second, my gaze became ensnared by the contours of his sculpted muscles, beckoning me to delve into realms my professionalism forbade. I reluctantly averted my eyes, surveying his form. Was this individual genuinely unclothed, or was it merely a semblance of undress that teased the boundaries of decency? His Chestnut hair, possibly black when soaked, clung to his face, suggestive of a recent shower. His body glistened with moisture, exuding an allure that bordered on the divine. I found myself marveling at this specimen of manhood, a breed apart from the ordinary.

Could those be six-pack abs adorning his torso, or did my eyes deceive me, revealing an astonishing eight-pack? His physique was akin to an impenetrable fortress, and his captivating gaze seemed to oscillate between hues of green and blue, creating an intriguing fusion. In my mind, I couldn't help but exclaim, "Damn, he's hot!" Each muscle and curve on his body beckoned me closer, and it occurred to me that someone ought to apprehend him for walking around with such irresistible allure. After all, one simply shouldn't be allowed to exude such intense magnetism with such nonchalant grace.

"Could that be a noticeable state of arousal?" I pondered, as it seemed like he was indeed displaying a rather prominent physical reaction. It left me with a perplexing dilemma; was he genuinely unaware of the inadequacy of the towel's cover-up efforts, or was this a calculated display? Struggling to regain control of my thoughts, I internally scolded myself, urging, 'Halt, Samila,' and thus pulling myself away from the precipice of unprofessional musings. After all, I had to remind myself he was not just any man; he was my boss, and such lascivious daydreaming was strictly off-limits, lest it be a repeat offense.

Musing on his allure, I was torn between regarding him as a masterpiece of aesthetic allure or an irresistibly tempting slab of masculinity. These reflections struck me with such swiftness that I found myself taking an involuntary step backward, startled by my own audacity. Simultaneously, the word "damn" escaped his lips, leaving me wondering if, perhaps, my fantasies had been reciprocated. However, logic swiftly interjected, dismissing the notion that a man of his physique and affluence would ever deign to acknowledge my presence, especially considering the added weight I had carried post-recovery and post-Pilar's birth. Self-doubt and self-critique began to creep in, as I considered my own perception of beauty, or lack thereof, pondering if I had ever been subject to the appreciative scrutiny of a man.

Gradually, our conversation began, and while I could only discern snippets of his dialogue, it was evident that he was, in part, self-conscious about his own verbosity. This admission offered a sigh of relief, suggesting a more casual and down-to-earth persona lurking behind his imposing exterior.

Upon his invitation to enter, I proceeded cautiously, mindful of the earlier growling dog sounds, which had, by now, slipped from my immediate attention. As I crossed the threshold into his residence, the term 'apartment' seemed a gross understatement; this was nothing short of a penthouse. The soaring ceilings, oversized windows offering breathtaking city views, and the sheer magnitude of the space overwhelmed me. I marveled at the daily privilege of waking up to such a spectacular panorama. My awe persisted until Daniel's voice drew my gaze towards him.

"Please, have a seat. I'll get dressed and join you in a moment," he kindly suggested before retreating down a hallway that presumably led to his bedroom. I made my way to the couch, taking a seat with a sense of wonder, not particularly conscious of where my posterior landed. Amidst my efforts to maintain composure, I couldn't help but let my eyes wander, fully appreciating the grandeur of this dwelling. It was expansive to the point of having multiple levels, beckoning the possibility of a future tour and necessitating a meticulous cleaning plan, should I ever be granted the privilege.

Moments later, Daniel returned to the living area, catching me by surprise with his promptness. He had exchanged his initial attire for a much more relaxed, everyday ensemble, comprising classic designer blue jeans and a simple T-shirt. His choice to go barefoot only emphasized the casual, spontaneous charm of his outfit, presenting a striking juxtaposition to the opulence of the penthouse surroundings.

"Would you kindly accompany me, as I guide you through this splendid abode of ours, and thereafter, we can partake in some engaging conversation," he extends the invitation.

With an arched brow, I inquire, "Isn't it conventional for the talking part to precede the tour?"

He responds thoughtfully, "Indeed, the standard protocol dictates such an order. However, we've chosen to deviate from tradition. Our reason being, some of our previous housekeepers found themselves at odds with the financial arrangements. You see, their agency meticulously prepped their paperwork, complete with binding agreements and settlement contracts. We, in good faith, established a predetermined salary. Regrettably, avarice occasionally clouded the initial understanding."

As I join him in stride, curiosity guiding me, I inquire, "Have there been any documented instances of this?"

We traverse into what appears to be the kitchen, an expansive and immaculate space, boasting a capacious countertop and an oversized stove. The refrigerator dwarfs even my grandest expectations. It's an enclave where culinary dreams could flourish, a haven for any discerning chef.

He reflects on the question, "You bring up a valid point. What indeed is there to report? To refrain from sounding overly self-assured—forgive me if I do—our housekeepers often sign the contract, and it's more a matter of our acquiescence than their imposition. They, at times, prefer to substitute one of their own."

I nod in understanding, contemplating the value of understanding the reasons for former employees' departures. "But why didn't they send a replacement? If you mentioned that's their practice."

He offers a serene smile, "Charlie insisted on granting an opportunity directly rather than through the agency. I'm grateful for his choice."

A sense of gratitude wells within me, for this individual, though immensely affluent, remains remarkably grounded. He upholds the principle that employees should have a say in their selection.

I shadow him as he unveils the remainder of the estate. It dawns on me that I'll be working in this remarkable environment, one that I've grown fond of. It exudes comfort, and my new boss, Daniel, proves to be approachable and relatable. I'm left with the hope that the person signing the paychecks shares the same amiable disposition.