Loathe by the Billionaire

My hands fell like they're filled with cement but I still manage to raise them high enough to knock. I can hear him yelling at someone already so I know he's in a mood.

It's too late to retreat, I can't turn back now.

"Come in!" He yells in a loud and unecessary tone. He knows I can hear him clearly, I'm right behind the door.

I smooth out my dress then push the door open. He doesn't even bother to spare me a glance. I stand there for a moment, waiting for him to acknowledge me. He doesn't.

"Umm..." I start to stutter. Curse my timidity. 'This is not the moment Kayla, think about mum!'

I square my shoulders and begin, "Mr. Blackwood..."

He looks up at him with those ashy grey eyes, "I'm not Mr. Blackwood. Mr. Blackwood is the guy that signs the checks. My name is Damien."

His voice has already thrown me off my orbit. I try to rearrange my words as I watch his patience dissolve quickly.

"If that's all," he says, already pushing away from his table and standing up.

"No, Damien!" I blurt out without thinking.

The way his eyes access me, I know I've already made a mistake. He stands up anyway, shifts away from his desk and walks towards me. He towers over me, standing at 6'3. A stark contrast to my small frame, I'm only 5'4.

From down here I can see how devilishly handsome this man is.

Damien Blackwood looks like he was carved out of stone. He is breathtaking in a way that hurts if you stare too long. His gray eyes are stormy, you could get lost just staring at them.

One lock of his dark brown hair always falls forward when he’s frustrated— like now.

I watch as he adjusts his black suit, which is tailored within an inch of perfection, the fabric hugs his broad shoulders and trim waist. His shirt, crisp white, has the top button undone, revealing just enough to tell you that he never skips a workout. Even his watch ticks with quiet arrogance.

"Miss Robinson," he says because I'm very sure he doesn't know my first name. I've been his assistant for six months, yet he doesn't know my first name.

My hands ball into fists beside me as I wait for him to finish his sentence.

"I am your boss, not your friend. If you dare call me by my first name, I'll make sure you're back in the job market for at least two years," he enunciates every word, and means it.

By now my breath is chopped and ragged. Still I speak through it. "I'm sorry-ry, Mr. Damien. I just want to ask, request your..."

He takes me in a very very small sweep, "What?" He asks making sure his irritation is visible.

"I need an advance payment sir..." I finally manage to say.

He scoffs, loud enough that I can hear it. "No!"

"Sir?" I adjust my glasses, making sure I heard correctly.

"I have somewhere to be," he says, walking past me. I follow hurriedly, my small steps hardly carrying me quick enough.

"Mr. Blackwood," I call out, "Mr Damien," I correct myself. I'm still running and almost trip over my own feet.

The floors are polished so well, a fall would definitely land me in the hospital. I can't afford that.

His steps slow when he's in front of the elevator. He waits a moment for it to open. I know he can hear me, bastard!

"Mr Damien. Please, I'll work overtime and..."

He cuts me off, "What is it that you do now Miss Robinson?"

His question completely throws me off. I catch myself before a scoff escapes my lips. There's no way he's being serious.

He's dead serious.

'What is it that I actually do? How about grab your fucking coffee in the morning, pick up your dry cleaning, send flowers and cards to your hoes when you block them, handle their mental breakdowns and occasional assault, organize your schedule, have your lunch organized everyday because of how grumpy you get when your hungry you fucking toddler. The reports, the late nights, the meetings'

I didn't have the courage to say any of those things. I needed an advance, not an early retirement.

He looks at me, then averts his eyes to the elevator that opens up in front of him. He gets inside. I can feel the tears welling up behind my eyelids but I'd rather die that let them fall, not in front of him.

Before the elevator door shuts, I hold it. His widens his eyes in surprise. "Sir, I'll do whatever it is that you want. I need this advance. I'm asking for my salary. Nothing extra, just my salary. It's almost the end of the month. I really need the money. Please," I say because at this point, I'm not above begging.

He stares at me for a moment before speaking. "Have a good day Miss Robinson," was all he said before prying my little fingers of the elevator doors one after the other. That was the most contact I had with Damien Blackwood, CEO of Blackwood industries and certified asshole. The devil in a suit.

Now I can cry. By the time the elevator doors open again, I drag myself along with my worn out Coach bag.

I summon the widest smile I can as I reach downstairs, waving everyone I make eye contact with.

That was Kathy Robinson, the girl who always smile while she was dying inside.

And speaking of dying, I had to get to the hospital fast before visiting hours were over.

Immediately I got outside, I flagged down the first cab I saw and climbed in, pressing my forehead against the window as we sped toward St. Mary’s.

By the time I got there, the sky was fading — that kind of orange that looks tired too. I stood outside her room, staring through the glass. The sound of the machines pulsed steady like a clock counting down.

Mom’s chest rose and fell under the thin blanket. From here I could see her pale face and lips dry. I pressed my hand against the glass and just stood there, letting the hum of the monitors lull the fight out of me.

A warm hand touched my shoulder. “Kayla?”

I turned and saw him — Wesley, in his white coat, looking exactly like the boy who used to sneak me mango slices after school. I didn’t even say hi. I just hugged him tight. The tears came, hot and unstoppable.

“She’s hanging in there,” he said quietly.

“I know,” I whispered. “She’s been hanging in there her whole life.”

Mom raised me and my sister on her own after Dad ran off with his mistress. I was ten when I watched her pack his things into boxes without a single tear. She taught us to survive, to never beg, and to never trust men who smiled too easily. Maybe that’s why I can’t stand Damien Blackwood — the man is every polished version of what broke her.

When Mom got sick, my sister and I took whatever we could find. She’s still in college part-time. I was juggling night shifts at a diner just to cover Mom’s dialysis until Damien found out and told me to quit. Said it “reflected poorly on his office.” I should’ve told him where to shove his reflection, but I needed the job more than I needed pride.

All I wanted was my salary. Just one advance to keep her treatment going. He said no, like he was saying no to a coffee refill.

Wesley would’ve helped if he could, but he’s already paying his siblings’ tuition. I couldn’t keep taking his money even though he always offered and said it was fine. I couldn’t keep watching her fade for lack of money I earned but couldn’t touch.

I was running out of options.

Right now, I'd do anything. And I mean anything, to save my mum.