Loathe by the Billionaire

Kayla's pov

My eyes leave my computer for a second and land on the woman who's screaming in my face.

“Where is Damien Blackwood?!” she screams, her voice echoing across the entire floor. “Where is that bastard?!”

I freeze. Of all days…

I swallow my anxiety and rush toward her before she can reach the executive hallway.

“Ma’am, excuse me,” I say, blocking her path even though my knees feel like overcooked noodles. “You can’t be here. This is a restricted area. I’m going to have to call security if you don’t leave.”

She whips around, eyes burning with something unhinged.

“Security?” she repeats with a scoff. “Do you know who I am?”

“No,” I answer honestly, trying to stand my ground.

Then she slaps me.

The sound rings across the office. My cheek burns instantly, tears prickling behind my eyes.

“How dare you?” she spits. “I am Alexandra de Luna. You’ll see my face on every magazine, every runway, every fashion blog. And you,” she flicks her fingers at me like I’m dirt, “you think you can tell me to leave?”

I bite down so hard on my tongue I taste metal.

“What the hell is going on here?” Damien, my boss says stepping out of his office. His storm-gray eyes flick from Alexandra to me, taking in the slap mark on my cheek.

“Damien!” Alexandra cries. “Baby, this bitch was being mean to me...”

“No.” He rolls his eyes, “Whatever the fuck this is, end it. Now.”

Her face crumples in offense. “You slept with me at Hotel de Luna and never called. Never texted. You think you can treat me like...”

“I never slept with you Alex,” he continues. “Leave before security drags you out.”

“You’re unbelievable,” she whispers.

“Yes,” Damien says with no remorse. “I am.”

She storms out, humiliated, pushing past employees who pretend not to stare.

When the clicking of her heels fades, the office goes silent again.

Damien turns his attention to me.

He gives me a subtle nod, without a single apology he spins on his heel and returns to his office, shutting the door behind him.

---

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 unnecessary 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 me, "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 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 step, "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 don't have the courage to say any of those things. I need 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.

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.

I hate Damien Blackwood.