Spotless
"She runs a cleaning service—Somali women helping each other build something respectable. He's the wealthy client whose penthouse she cleans personally because he keeps requesting her. What starts professional gets messy fast."
"You missed a spot."
He says this every time. There's never actually a spot.
"Where?"
"Here." He points to something invisible. "I need you to come back tomorrow."
His name is Axmed.
Property developer. Rich enough to hire an army of cleaners. But he only wants me.
"Why request me specifically?" I ask finally.
"Because you're thorough." He watches me work. "And because I can't stop thinking about you."
"This is inappropriate."
I say it even as I come back again and again.
"I know." He doesn't move. "Do you want me to stop requesting you?"
"Do you want to stop?"
"No." He's honest. "I want more of you. All of you."
"I'm your cleaner."
"You're more than that." He takes the mop from my hands. "You built a business from nothing. Employed a dozen women. You're remarkable."
"You're rich and bored."
"I'm rich and fascinated." He steps closer. "There's a difference."
We cross every line.
In his penthouse, against windows overlooking London, where anyone could see.
"Axmed—"
"I've wanted this since you first walked in."
"I'm here to clean."
"Clean tomorrow." He lifts me onto the counter. "Tonight, let's get messy."
We make love with all of London watching.
His wealth, my work ethic, something unexpected in between.
"This is crazy—"
"This is right." He moves with me. "You're the realest thing in my life."
He invests in my company.
Not charity—partnership. My business grows. Our relationship deepens.
"Move in," he says.
"I clean this place."
"Not anymore." He kneels. "Marry me. Live here. Let me support what you've built."
"I don't need support."
"Then let me love you." He opens the ring box. "That's all I'm asking."
I say yes.
The penthouse finally feels like home.