Chapter 29
Walking into Saif’s office the following morning wasn’t the most difficult thing Jemma had ever done.
Burying her mother—who might still be alive if they’d been able to afford better healthcare—held the top spot on that list.
Walking away from Saif a year ago, heart shattered, probably came second.
Giving birth to Jayla soon after her mother’s funeral… That had been both beautiful and brutal.
But stepping into Saif’s office today, knowing he would expect an answer about moving into his home…
That ranked somewhere high. Maybe not top three, but close enough to make her stomach ache and her palms damp.
It was the right thing—for Jayla, for Saif.
Saif could offer their daughter comforts Jemma couldn’t yet afford. Stability. Protection. Presence. Jayla hadn’t lacked for love. But now, she could have both her parents.
And last night had proven something else. Saif would be a damn good father.
“You’re scared,” Saif said quietly, watching her from behind his desk.
His voice was calm. Low. But she could feel the current of intensity beneath it, like a river just before it flooded.
He stood slowly and walked around his desk, his footsteps deliberate and unhurried.
Jemma’s breath caught as he approached, the familiar scent of his cologne stirring up a thousand memories.
God, he was still so tall. Solid. So... him.
He reached for her gently, sliding his arms around her waist and pulling her into his arms.
Her cheek came to rest against the hard wall of his chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat steady against her skin. Her breasts pressed to his sternum, her body nestling into his as if it remembered exactly how they used to fit.
The warmth of his embrace wrapped around her like a memory she hadn’t realized she missed. It felt like home. It felt dangerously good.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured, his breath brushing her ear.
When she didn’t respond, he tipped her face up with one knuckle, his dark eyes scanning hers. “Why are you nervous?”
Jemma stepped back, slipping from his arms with more reluctance than she wanted to admit.
The absence of his touch left her instantly cold.
Still, she straightened her spine, lifting her chin even as her gaze slid away.
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice quieter than she intended. Then, steadier: “I’m still wary of your offer to sponsor Jasper.”
She turned, fixing him with a sharp glare. “Tell me again—look me in the eye—and tell me that if I say no to moving in, you won’t punish my brother. That you won’t hurt Jasper as payback.”
Saif shoved his hands into the pockets of his tailored slacks, the fabric whispering with the motion.
He nodded slowly, his expression grave. “I guarantee it. Nothing you say will change my mind about Jasper. He’s a smart, gifted kid. I want to help him. No strings attached.”
“Why him?” she pressed. “There are thousands of gifted kids in the world who could use your generosity.”
Her arms crossed tightly over her chest, a barrier she wasn’t sure even she believed in anymore.
Saif didn’t flinch. “Actually, my family already sponsors over a hundred students with the same offer. So if you’re wondering whether Jasper is uniquely special in this regard—he’s not.”
Jemma blinked. The wind left her sails so abruptly it almost made her sway.
“Oh,” she replied softly, unable to come up with anything sharper.
But Saif took a step closer, ducking slightly to hold her gaze.
“That doesn’t lessen my commitment to him. Jasper’s going to need more than just tuition money. Boys at boarding schools like Monument can be vicious. They’ll crush an outsider’s soul just to prove they can. And Jasper? He’s all heart and fire. I won’t let them break him.”
His voice had shifted—firmer now. Fierce. Protective.
“He’ll only be there two years,” he added, his tone gentling again. “But we have to move quickly. They started classes three weeks ago. Even that much time puts him at a disadvantage.”
Jemma hesitated, eyes narrowing. “Is it really that hard?”
Saif smiled, slow and faintly amused, and reached out to take her hand.
He laced his fingers through hers with surprising tenderness. “Yeah. Monument is one of the top academies in the country. Maybe the world. They only take fifty new boys each year.”
He tugged gently, leading her toward the door.
“There’s a sister school too,” he added as they walked. “That one’s even more intense. All girls. All geniuses.”
He stepped into the waiting elevator and turned to her, holding the door with one hand.
Jemma paused on the threshold, brows drawing together. “Where are we going?”
Saif tugged her gently into the elevator, pressing the button without asking. His touch was light, but decisive—like everything he did.
They shifted toward the back to make room for his bodyguards, who stood silently in front like statues in tailored suits. Jemma’s shoulders tensed. She remembered this—the quiet dominance, the men who always stood between Saif and the world.
Memories stirred, some sweet, some raw. She closed her eyes for a heartbeat and sighed, the ache of old emotions pressing in on her ribs.
“We’re going to my home,” Saif said, watching her closely. “I want to introduce you to the housekeeper, as well as four of the potential nannies.”
“Nannies?” she echoed, her voice already tight with suspicion.
“I spoke to an employment agency this morning and…” He hesitated, his jaw shifting before he corrected himself. “Actually, my assistant spoke to them. She arranged for candidates to meet us today. I thought we could interview them together.”
“Interview?” she repeated, her voice rising slightly as she tried to keep up. “Jayla already has a sitter. A good one.”
“She does,” he agreed with a nod. “But the woman in your building also watches half the neighborhood. And I doubt she’s going to commute across Philadelphia to work in my home.”
Jemma crossed her arms. “You’re assuming a lot.”
Before he could respond, the elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.
They moved as a group across the marble-floored lobby. Saif led effortlessly, as if the world rearranged itself to accommodate his presence. The bodyguards flanked both of them without a word. Jemma followed, feeling strangely out of place.
Outside, his driver stood beside a gleaming black SUV, engine already running.
Of course. Saif never waited.
He didn’t stand in line. He didn’t fumble for keys. He didn’t check the time and hope he wasn’t late.
He moved, and the world moved with him.
Jemma’s jaw clenched. She hated how seamless his life felt. She hated how he made wealth look effortless—while she’d been counting coins at the grocery store and putting off her own dental appointments to keep up with bills.
But then Saif started listing the nanny candidates and their credentials, calmly explaining their child-rearing philosophies: Montessori-inspired learning. Creative play over rigid structure. A balance of mental stimulation and emotional grounding.
And just like that, her irritation faltered.
He wasn’t showing off. He was thinking about Jayla.
Their daughter.
Could she really deny Jayla this kind of life—this kind of care—just because she was scared of what Saif might want in return?
“There are no strings attached, Jemma,” he said, his voice low and steady. His hands remained at his sides. He didn’t touch her. Didn’t try to sway her with charm.
She studied him for a long moment, then exhaled slowly. Without a word, she slid into the back seat of the SUV.
A year ago, she’d thought only the rich and famous rode in limousines. But after dating Saif, she’d learned the truly powerful preferred SUVs. They were less conspicuous, more versatile, and built for performance.
Five minutes later, they pulled into a gated driveway.
No, not a driveway. A private road.
The property was walled in with tall brick and iron, and the security gate glided open with a hum, allowing the SUV to roll down a tree-lined path.
And then she saw it.
The house—no, the estate—came into view like something out of a historical drama.
Turrets flanked either side like gentle towers. Windows glittered across the facade. The massive double doors looked like they’d been lifted from a medieval castle and polished to a royal sheen.
Her lips parted in surprise. “Oh my God…”
“Let me show you around,” Saif said, reaching for her hand.
She took it before she realized what she was doing.
A year ago, he’d lived in a penthouse. Now this?
When had he bought this place? And why?
Jemma was too overwhelmed to pull her hand back. He led her through the doors, and her senses were immediately consumed.
Polished wood glowed beneath her feet. The iron chandelier above could have lit a cathedral. The sweeping staircase curved upward like a ribbon, its banister carved with delicate vines. Massive paintings adorned the walls—landscapes that looked real.
She stepped closer to one and caught her breath. Water lilies in soft, dreamy strokes.
“Is that…a Monet?” she whispered.
“I’m glad you approve,” Saif murmured, his voice rich with amusement.
She could hear the quiet amusement in his voice, that smug undercurrent that always made her want to throw something at him—or kiss him senseless. Sometimes both.
When she turned away from the impressionist painting of water lilies, she gave him a glare, but it was half-hearted at best. Her expression crumbled almost immediately, overwhelmed by the sheer magnificence around her.
There was just too much to take in.
“Let me show you the rest of the house,” he said, his voice deep and steady. Without waiting for her reply, he took her hand again and led her through a maze of beauty and luxury.
First was a handsome office with mahogany walls and a sleek, modern desk that looked like it cost more than her annual salary.
Then a library, complete with a sliding ladder and tall windows that bathed the room in soft morning light.
The sitting room came next—French doors opened out into a courtyard that looked like something from a romantic European film, with a bubbling stone fountain and meticulously arranged bursts of color from wildflowers and roses.
There was a formal living room, then a dining room large enough to seat twenty, and a gleaming chef’s kitchen with double ovens and a central island the size of her entire old apartment.
In the kitchen, a warm-looking woman with salt-and-pepper curls and kind eyes introduced herself as Amara, the housekeeper.
She was friendly and calm, and Jemma immediately liked her.
And there were other rooms—so many, she lost track. Music room. Lounge spaces. Sunroom. A wine cellar Saif showed her through glass flooring in one of the halls.
“I won’t show you all the bedrooms,” he said at one point, his lips curving into a wicked grin, “because I suspect you’ll freak out if we get anywhere near a bed.”
Jemma paused, narrowing her eyes at him. “You think I scare that easily?”
“I think you’re smart enough to know that if we end up near a bed…” He let the rest hang in the air, suggestive and dangerous.
She didn’t answer. Because, truthfully, a bed did feel like a line she wasn’t ready to approach yet.
Or maybe she was. And that was what scared her.
Before she could puzzle through the mess in her head, he led her through the back of the house and out onto a stone patio.
The fresh air hit her first—cool and crisp with the faint scent of autumn leaves and late-blooming roses.
The garden stretched out in layered tiers, overflowing with color.
A wide path of hand-laid stone curled through beds of jewel-toned flowers, rustling shrubs, and ornamental trees that shimmered with early October golds and reds.
In the center of it all was a raised platform draped in climbing vines and framed by two ancient oaks.
“And this,” Saif said, sweeping a hand across the stunning landscape, “could be the scene of our wedding. On Saturday.”
Jemma froze.
His voice had been casual, almost conversational. But there was something in the way he stood—solid, tall, determined—that made it clear this wasn’t a suggestion.
He was giving her a glimpse of the life he wanted. The life he was already planning.
The wind stirred her hair, but she barely felt it.
If she’d ever pictured her wedding—and she usually hadn’t—it had been small. Quiet. Maybe in a small church or quick and easy at a courthouse. Something simple and sweet. Something she could afford.
Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined this.
Not a garden bursting with color, kissed by sunlight, the kind of place where fairy tales were created.
“This isn’t fair,” she whispered, her voice breaking. Her hands trembled as she clasped them in front of her, trying to hold herself together.
Saif turned toward her, blocking the garden from view with the sheer breadth of his shoulders. His expression was softer now, but still intense.
“If you’ll recall,” he said gently, “I don’t play fair, Jemma.”
Then he reached out and cupped her cheek with the kind of tenderness that unraveled her resolve. His thumb brushed her skin, and without hesitation, he leaned down and kissed her.
There was no hesitation in him. No doubt.
She melted, her knees weakening as the heat of his lips and the scent of his cologne swirled around her. For one, long moment, she let herself fall into it.
Into him.
Because whether or not it was fair…this man was changing everything.