'He has been waiting,' the guard gestures Nur to follow inside.

She steps in the house too small for a billionaire. This is always her first thought, whenever she steps in. The only great feature the house possesses is te lush green garden that stretches far enough to be made a public garden with the flowers of colours she never saw and of patterns she always wanted to feel. She stops before the wooden door behind which he awaits.

She knocks once and the door, with a grunt, opens.

She breath stops in her throat as Dylan Westbrook's eyes her soul out. 'Why do you have—

'—I'm sorry sir,' she cuts him off as she bows her head, 'I had some traffic on the way.'

'Then wake up earlier.'

'I'm sorry.'

'I can't tolerate this anymore,' he, in his crisp black suit, walks off to the breakfast room and Nur follows him, 'I would have to fire you.'

'I'm sorry, sir. I promise this will never happen again.'

He clenches his jaw as he sits on the chair. Unfolding the napkin, he lays it on his lap. 'Everyone says the same.'

'I really am sorry, sir.' Nur's patience grew less with each apology. 'This won't happen again.' Nur says as she unlocks the box and for a minute moment, let her eyes swipe at him;

His blue eyes stay at her hands, waiting for her to take the breakfast out. as with his tattooed hand, he scratches his triumph beard. His brown hair are gelled back, and the sides are shaved, just like every morning. The only feature Nur can't keep her eyes off are the freckles on his nose which make him cute and arrogant at the same time. 'I need to go to work, Nur.' He makes her snap out of her thoughts.

'Oh,' she immediately lowers her eyes. She would not gawk at him. She knows it but she can't stop herself. He is a non-Muslim. He is a billionaire. He is handsome. No chance, Nur.

She places the fruits cut in cubes and scrambled eggs in plates. She drags them in front of him and he deliberately picks up his fork and knife and slices his egg to eat.

As she controls her eyes to stay anything on his face, she notices a small rose flower in the edge of his ring finger. She would never see it if she won't be ogling his hands. The way his nails are cut precisely, his knuckles are prominent, the veins on the back of his hand flex when he moves his h—

'Nur,' his deep voice is like an alarm to her eyes.

Eyes widened, she looks up ya him. 'Yes, Sir?'

'Juice.' He speaks, 'Why are you lost today?'

'I was ... nothing, sir.' She shakes her head to get to focus. Her hands tremble as she picks up a toast and place it on his plate.

He is pissed off, Nur can see. The way he gnashes his teeth. But why is he? Did I do something wrong? And then her subconscious reminds her what he asked for and what she gave him. 'I'm sorry.'

As she pours his juice from the jug, he stands up, 'Forget it,' he says, throwing his handkerchief on the table.

'Sir, no please, wait!' She runs for him, holding the glass of juice in her hand.

Noting the panic in her voice he turns around almost too instantly that his chest crashes in the hand of Nur and te yellow mango juice spills on his shirt.

Nur gasps, out of words. What have I done? She mentally face palms herself as she stands there, holding the glass in her hand.  As slowly as she could, she lifts up her brown eyes to his blue ones. 'I'm sorry?'

She apologises for the fifth time but the coldness in his eyes says that this is perhaps the last apology.

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