Chapter 1

I woke up thirty minutes before Fajr—double my usual fifteen-minute window for Tahajjud. On most days, I stumbled out of bed rubbing sleep from my eyes, but today, my heart felt so full of gratitude that I couldn’t wait to stand before Allah.

A few weeks ago, I had dropped to my knees, begging for relief from our broken fridge. And He answered. An energy-saving refrigerator now stood in my kitchen, humming quietly. If it decreased my electricity bill by even two dollars, I would be utterly content.

Once my alarm buzzed, I slipped into Naeem’s room. At six years old, he was usually a carbon copy of me—bubbly, bright, and radiating energy—but waking him up was a tactical operation. “Time to wake up, my baby,” I whispered, tickling his side.

He groaned dramatically, burying his face deeper into his car shaped pillow.

“Come on, mister,” I said, my voice shifting into its gentle but unyielding mother-mode. “Your pancakes are getting cold. Chop chop!” Within twenty minutes, he was at the kitchen table, swinging his legs and chattering a mile a minute about a spaceship he wanted to build, his mouth full of food. I wiped a stray drop of syrup from his cheek, giving him a firm look. “Don’t speak with your mouth full, beta.”

He gulped it down with a cheeky, dimpled grin. “Sorry, Ammi!”

By the time I got him zipped into his jacket and his backpack buckled, he was practically vibrating with excitement, holding his favorite plastic toy tightly in his fist. When it was finally time to leave, I shut our apartment door and turned the key slowly. I intentionally let the metal click loudly, giving Habiba and Badr next door the chance to come out and say hello.

Right on cue, the door clicked open.

“I got my truck today!” Naeem bolted forward, to show off the plastic toy clutched in his little fist. He had thrown a tantrum about taking it to school, and as his mother, I’d had to give him my signature strict look before he promised to keep it in his backpack.

“You did?” Habiba asked, crouching down as he ran into her arms.

“Yeah! But Ammi said I have to keep it in my bag.” He mumbled the last past to her.

“Am I hearing the voice of a very big boy,” a deep, booming voice echoed down the hall before its owner even appeared.

Hearing Badr’s voice sent Naeem into ecstasy. He began jumping up and down, squealing, and the moment Badr stepped into the hallway, Naeem practically launched himself at the man.

Badr, Habiba’s husband, was a mountain of a Moroccan man. With his thick, curly hair and striking features, he perfectly complimented his wife, Habiba, who was a gorgeous Nigerian woman with a face carved by angels. Badr effortlessly scooped Naeem off the ground, spinning him through the air while my son shrieked with laughter.

Habiba stepped out behind him, crossing her arms and pouting playfully. “Maybe I should blackmail him into liking me more,” she teased, walking over to wrap me in a warm, comforting hug. Naeem always made it clear that Badr was his favorite, much to Habiba’s faux jealousy.

I chuckled, melting into her embrace. “How are you?” I asked, my voice light.

“Alhamdulillah,” she said, pulling back with a bright smile. “And you?”

I glanced over at my son, who was currently hanging upside down from Badr’s arm. “He’s giving me an eventful morning.”

“He’s quite the handful,” Habiba laughed.

Eventually, Badr set Naeem down, giving him the usual lecture about listening to his mother and being a good boy at school. I smiled gratefully. I appreciated Badr’s positive influence so much, yet a tiny, protective knot tied itself in my stomach. I worried sometimes. Naeem shouldn’t get too used to this feeling. He shouldn’t grow up expecting fatherly love from a neighbor, no matter how wonderful they were.

After dropping Naeem off at his school, I hurried to the hotel, quickly changing into my housekeeping uniform. But just as I grabbed my supplies, my supervisor, Hank, called my name.

My stomach plummeted. Ya Allah, please don’t let me be fired, I prayed, my palms sweating.

But to my utter shock, Hank handed me a set of keys. “You’re on the VIP floor today, Sanaa.”

My chest drummed with sudden happiness. This was exactly what I had been aiming for—working my way to the top. When I first applied to the hotel, I had gunned for a higher administrative position, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and cleaning was the only opening. I took it with the firm intention of climbing the ladder. It felt like my hard work was finally paying off.

The elevator dinged on the penthouse floor. I stepped out onto the plush carpet, pushing my heavy trolley loaded with high-thread-count sheets and premium cleaning supplies.

I worked my way down the hall. At the third room, I knocked firmly. “Housekeeping,” I called out. I waited, repeated the protocol three times, and when only silence answered, I swiped the key card and pushed the door open.

The suite was immaculate, barely looking lived-in. I breathed a sigh of relief as I pushed my heavy trolley inside; a clean room meant I actually had a moment to catch my breath. I set up my supplies and peeled off my yellow rubber gloves, letting my skin breathe for a moment. With the guest nowhere in sight and the suite already in pristine condition, I figured I could spare a quick five minutes to relax.

Leaving my supplies by the bed, I wandered past a set of double doors and found myself in a gorgeous bedroom. A row of dark wood shelf stretched to the ceiling, smelling beautifully of polished timber. I smiled, my inner bookworm instantly thrilled. I stepped deeper into the quiet room, running a bare finger along the leather spines, completely melting into the peaceful atmosphere.

I followed the curve of the room toward a slightly ajar balcony door at the far end of the room and stepped through the opening to check the terrace, but the moment I crossed the threshold, the air left my lungs.

My heart leaped straight into my throat and my hand flew over my mouth, my entire body going rigid. “Oh my God!” I screeched.

A shirtless man was precariously balanced on the very edge of the balcony railing.

At my scream, he snapped his head around, his eyes widening in shock. He stumbled, losing his footing for a terrifying second. Instinct took over. I threw myself forward, hands outstretched, desperate to catch him before he plummeted twenty stories to the concrete below. Luckily, he managed to grip the wall and stabilize himself.

“Please get down! Please!” I cried out, my voice cracking with terror. I kept my hands extended, shaking and praying he would take them.

“What do you mean?” he asked, looking down at my trembling hands, completely baffled.

“Please just get down! Please!” Tears pricked my eyes.

“Hey! Hey, relax!” The man quickly raised his hands in a placating gesture. He carefully swung his legs back over the railing and dropped onto the balcony floor. “Relax, breathe.”

The immediate danger had passed, but the adrenaline crash hit me like a physical blow. My vision blurred. My legs turned to water, shivering uncontrollably, and then the world turned black.

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My eyes fluttered open. The ceiling above me wasn’t familiar, and panic immediately jolted me upright.

I was lying on a luxurious hotel bed. My head throbbed with a dull ache. “Hey,” a voice called out softly from the corner of the room.

I whipped my head around and sat up. Sitting in an armchair was the man from the balcony, his expression laced with genuine worry. The memories came rushing back in a tidal wave.

“Are you okay?” he asked, standing up and taking a cautious step forward. “I’m so sorry I startled you. I promise you I just wanted some fresh air. I’m—”

“Are you crazy?!” I snapped, the terror converting instantly into rage. I couldn’t stop myself. “Who the hell climbs onto the edge of a balcony like that just for air? What if you had fallen? Then what?!”

He stopped in his tracks, looking slightly shocked, but a slow, amused smirk began to tug at the corner of his lips. That only pissed me off more. What on earth was funny about a near-death experience? I swung my legs off the bed and stood up, rounding the mattress to face him properly.

Up close, recognition pulled at my brain. I knew I had seen him somewhere before, but the fog in my head made it impossible to place him. He had striking hazel eyes, a broad, muscular frame, and coily hair. His skin was beautiful, a dark chocolate shade.

“Aren’t you going to say anything for yourself?” I demanded, crossing my arms tightly. “Do you really think taking your own life is a joke?”

His hands flew up again, though the amusement didn’t leave his eyes. “Now, let’s not jump to conclusions. Who said anything about suicide? I’ll go when Allah decides it’s time. Not a second before.”

I froze, staring at him in utter shock. “You’re Muslim?! And you still put yourself in a reckless situation like that? Astagfirullah,” I muttered, shaking my head in disbelief.

“Hey, I was admiring the view, not contemplating the Akhirah, so relax,” he countered smoothly, taking a step closer. “Judging someone’s intentions is a much steeper fall, so maybe I’m not the one who needs guidance here.”

I opened my mouth to deliver a scathing comeback, completely enraged by his audacity, but the sharp sound of the door handle turning cut me off.

The door swung open, and my boss, Hank, stepped in. I immediately straightened my posture, my hand flying to my head to ensure my hijab hadn’t slipped out of place during my faint.

“I am so sorry, sir! I had no idea you would be in here today,” Hank blurted out, his face pale as he looked at the man. “You don’t normally come in at this hour, so I logged the suite as vacant.”

“It’s fine, Hank,” the man replied smoothly, waving a dismissive hand. He gestured toward me. “Just… take care of her. She passed out from the… scenery. It’s breathtaking out there, you should know.” He cast a mocking, amused glance my way.

“I’m perfectly fine,” I said quickly, trying to brush past them to get back to my cleaning cart.

“Give her the rest of the day off,” the man instructed Hank, completely ignoring my protest. “And don’t cut her pay for it.”

My head snapped toward him. Excuse me? Since when did a hotel guest have the authority to command my supervisor on payroll decisions?

“I said I’m fine. I don’t need the day off,” I repeated, my tone firm and unyielding, even though my head was still spinning like a top.

The man didn’t even look at me. He just kept his eyes on Hank. “Make sure she doesn’t do any more manual labor today. Send her home. And please, do not assign her to clean this suite again.”

I gaped at him. The nerve! Who did this man think he was?

“Come with me, Sanaa,” Hank said, his voice leaving no room for argument.

“Hank, I can work—”

“You heard him,” Hank cut me off pointedly.

I glared at the stranger, but he was already pulling out his phone, lifting it to his ear as he casually walked back out onto the balcony. Hank practically forced me to pack up my things and escorted me down to the housekeeping quarters. I was seething. I wanted to march right back up there and give him a piece of my mind, but he was clearly an ultra-wealthy VIP if he could dictate my work schedule with a single sentence.

“Who even is that guy?” I muttered once we were locked inside the elevator.

Hank glanced at me, raising a single eyebrow so high his forehead folded into deep lines. “Our boss. That’s Ayaan Diop. His family owns this hotel, but Ayaan runs the entire operation now.”

The remaining color drained from my face. The lingering grogginess in my head suddenly amplified, and I had to lean heavily against my cleaning trolley to keep from collapsing a second time.

I just yelled at the owner of the hotel. I called the big boss crazy.

“Are you okay?” Hank frowned, eyeing me with concern, though he carefully kept his distance.

“Is… is he going to fire me?” I whispered, my voice trembling.

After searching for employment for what felt like an eternity, this was the highest-paying job I had ever landed. Out of the two jobs I worked to keep a roof over Naeem’s head, this was the one we survived on. I couldn’t lose it.

“I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t give you a paid day off if he was planning on firing you,” Hank stated matter-of-factly as the elevator doors slid open.

I let out a long, shaky breath, trying to slow my racing pulse. I cannot pass out again.

Just as Mr. Diop had ordered, Hank sent me home. Internally, a small part of me was relieved to have a break, but my pride was deeply wounded. I was terrified I’d never be allowed back on the high-tip VIP floors.

I couldn’t stop obsessing over the disaster during the entire bus ride home. The moment I unlocked my apartment door, I decided to channel my nervous energy into deep-cleaning the kitchen. I briefly thought about picking up Naeem early from school to spend some quality time with him, but my throbbing headache suggested otherwise.

Stepping into the kitchen, I reached out and opened the refrigerator door to grab a cold drink.

And then, I froze.

The fridge. This fridge.

He gave us this fridge.

Ayaan. Badr had a close friend named Ayaan. He was the generous friend who had driven all the way to our apartment to personally deliver and install this fridge for us.

Oh my God.

I slapped my forehead with my palm, letting out a loud, groan as my hand accidentally crushed the packet of tomato paste I was holding.

This was a nightmare. I hadn’t even recognized his face. To be fair, it has been over two weeks, and I had only seen him briefly during the delivery—and I was notoriously terrible with faces. But still!

He probably thought I was an ungrateful, judgmental lunatic.

“Ya Rab,” I groaned, burying my face in my hands. How was I ever going to look him in the eye again?

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