The Billionaire’s Desire: Owned By Him

“My boss… he wouldn’t let me rest. He’s a machine,” Zara proclaimed to her best friend, Isla, dropping onto the bed beside her.

Isla turned slowly, her brows knitting together. “Really? A machine? What does he want?”

Zara let out a tired laugh. “He just has this… way about him. When he’s around, everything feels intense. By the time he’s done with me, I’m completely bare…and breathless.”

Isla squinted, trying to piece together what Zara meant. Suspicion wrestled quietly with her innocent curiosity.

“We were together almost the whole night,” Zara continued. “I still feel it—the scent of his cologne, the warmth when he’s close, the way he looks at me like he already knows what I’m thinking.” She sighed and stretched her legs across the mattress, staring up at the ceiling as if replaying every moment.

Isla was intrigued.

“So… he’s really that special?” she asked slowly, her words careful.

Zara smirked.

“It was intense,” she admitted. “A little overwhelming… but somehow exactly what I needed.”

Isla blinked. “You sound infatuated. Like a part of you changed the moment you met this boss.”

Zara sighed again, though a small smile lingered on her lips. “Yeah… he has this commanding presence. Like he knows exactly what he wants. It’s hard to ignore.”

Isla looked at her, more serious now.

“This boss of yours… what is he, some kind of perfect man with an almighty golden penis or something?”

Zara gave a mischievous smile.

“Something like that,” she whispered.

She pulled the duvet over herself and closed her eyes, as though surrendering to a memory she had no intention of escaping.

Isla remained seated, her mind wandering. It felt as though her friend had drifted into another world entirely, one ruled by excitement and dangerous fascination.

She noticed the little things about Zara lately—her lingering smiles, the way her mood seemed lighter, almost glowing with possibility.

Who was this boss?

And what kind of spell had he cast so effortlessly?

Or had Zara taken one of those little pills she jokingly called her “dolls”?

“Whew!” Isla exhaled, pressing her palms to her thighs. She glanced at Zara, who was already drifting into sleep, peaceful and quiet.

And despite herself… she began to imagine him.

Her lips curved slowly.

There was curiosity in that smile.

And something far less innocent—

a quiet spark of interest she hadn’t expected.

---

A Few Weeks Ago

Nat Wolfe, the billionaire CEO and heir to the Wolfe Group of Companies, stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse office, staring down at Manhattan.

From up here, the city looked conquerable.

And Nathaniel Wolfe had built his entire life on conquering things.

A knock interrupted his thoughts.

“Come in,” he said casually, without turning.

The door clicked open.

Nat Wolfe was chocolate-skinned, muscular, with round dark eyes that carried a dangerous kind of seduction.

He turned just as she shut the door.

Paula.

His personal assistant.

Tall. Slim. Blonde hair falling in deliberate waves over sharp shoulders. Blue eyes that didn’t just look—they pierced.

She frowned and folded her arms.

“Giving me that attitude again?” Nat asked, with amusement playing lazily on his lips.

“Come here,” he said softly, motioning for her.

Reluctantly, she stepped closer.

In one swift movement, he lifted her onto the edge of his desk. He stared at her, his hands sliding gently along her sides, his lips almost brushing hers—

But the moment he noticed the resistance in her expression, the clear lack of consent in her face, he stopped.

She pushed him back.

Nat smirked.

“What’s wrong?” His voice dropped low, teasing… dangerous.

“I don’t know. I’m tired,” she said, and this time she genuinely looked it—tired, fed up.

“Tired?”

“Look, Nat, I’m not your sex toy. What the hell is your problem?”

He chuckled, his ego entirely unshaken.

“Don’t tell me you’re not missing this,” he said, gesturing toward the middle of his trouser patch.

Her jaw tightened.

Without another word, she handed him an envelope.

As he opened it, she cut in—

“I’m resigning.”

The room went still.

So still that the ticking of the wall clock echoed through the office.

Nat’s fingers froze around the paper.

“Apparently, I can’t keep up with your… habits anymore,” she continued. “I need to retain what little dignity I have left.”

“Dignity?” His brow furrowed. “What does a slut know about dignity?”

Paula swallowed.

Then she slapped him.

It came fast. Hard. With the speed of impulsive rage.

His head tilted slightly with the impact.

Slowly, he patted his cheek.

And smiled.

That same sly, infuriating smile.

“I’m done with this charade,” Paula said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her chest. “I’m leaving you. Don’t expect me to come back.”

She turned toward the door.

“Two hundred thousand US dollars,” he called after her smoothly. “The house in the Bahamas. The apartment here in New York. The designer clothes. The jewelry. The Maybach. Pick your poison, sweetheart. Which one do I come for first?”

She laughed.

Loudly.

But beneath that laughter lingered something else—a trail of hurt, a tarnished resolve.

“You’re… a piece of ass,” she said, shaking her head.

Then, as though emboldened by a sudden realization, she continued.

“For your information, Nathaniel, I’ll be returning everything. I thought you were powerful once. Then I realized you’re just a lonely man hiding behind money.”

She stepped closer and leaned toward his ear.

“Goodbye, lunatic.”

Her whisper brushed his skin like a final insult.

Then she walked away.

Her pointed heels cracked rhythmically against the marble floor.

The door shut.

Silence returned.

Nat stood there, strangely stunned.

Not by her resignation—

But by her audacity.

By the confidence in her walk.

By the fact that she had actually left.

For the first time in a very long while, his ego felt bruised.

He poured himself a glass of whiskey from the crystal decanter on his desk and swallowed it in one burning gulp.

Women always came back.

They always did.

They all wanted money and no woman ever truly walked away from a man who had plenty of it.

He stared out at Manhattan again, certain of only one thing—

Paula would be no different.