The Boss from Hell

Annabelle stormed into Hotel Grand Hayat at her fastest pace, the familiar scent of brewed coffee and polished wood greeting her like a routine alarm. She'd been working here for the past two years, and yet today, everything felt upside down.

Slipping into her crisp uniform, she straightened the collar and marched toward the restaurant manager's cabin for an important meeting. The staff buzzed around like bees before a storm.

Word was out. Grand Hayat had been bought by one of the city's most powerful entrepreneurs. Today, the new boss was inspecting every corner of his kingdom, every employee on his payroll. He wasn't just meeting the staff—he was evaluating them. Coldly. Professionally. And if anyone didn't meet his gold-plated standards, they'd be booted. No second chances. No mercy.

The manager's voice was grim earlier that morning, "Impress the new boss—or you're out. Worse, if he blacklists you, you can kiss this entire industry goodbye."

Annabelle stood in the queue with the rest of the restaurant crew, her fingers nervously twisting the hem of her sleeve. She was a senior waitress now—once a cleaner, promoted in record time thanks to her grit. But this wasn't her endgame. Not by a long shot.

She had bigger fish to fry.

After graduating in hotel management, she dreamed of becoming the head chef of a five-star kitchen. But life hadn't exactly played fair. Her plans for a master's degree got derailed, and she had to dive headfirst into work. Yet, she'd hustled her way up—hard work, long nights, no excuses.

She couldn't afford to lose this job now. Not when she'd come so far.

"Annabelle," the old restaurant manager called her softly. She turned to face him. His wrinkled face and kind eyes had been a rare comfort in the cutthroat world of hospitality.

"You're smart, hardworking, and talented. You've got a spark. I'm retiring soon, and if things go well... maybe you can fill my shoes. But you gotta nail this, alright? Impress him."

Touched, Annabelle nodded. "I'll give it everything I've got, sir."

Soon, they all lined up like soldiers. The hallway buzzed with tension. Then came the unmistakable sound of synchronized footfalls. Tap-tap-tap. A swarm of sleek suits and sunglasses swirled into view. The man leading them moved like a storm in a tailored suit—black as night, his Italian shoes gleaming under the lights.

Annabelle caught only a glimpse, but something about the way he walked—so confident, so commanding—made her pulse quicken.

Before she could take another breath, the manager barked, "New boss wants to see the restaurant team in his private cabin. Move it."

Back in the kitchen, Annabelle was already in her element, guiding her team. The soup was simmering, her dish was ready, and she was giving tips on plating when Nora ran over, slightly panicked.

"Bells, can you help me? I need you to deliver this Raspberry Bavarois with sorbet to Room 4306. I'm not done with the dessert for the exec lunch."

Annabelle frowned. Time was tight. She was supposed to serve the opening soup soon.

Nora gave her a pleading look. "C'mon. You'll make it back in 15. Promise."

Reluctantly, she agreed, grabbed the tray, and pushed the trolley out. The lift was crawling. One was out of service, and the other was packed to the brim with staff and chaos. Then she spotted a guy who had just accessed the presidential elevator. He walked away, distracted by a phone call, not even waiting for it to arrive.

Ding.

Perfect timing.

Annabelle slipped into the presidential elevator—and froze as though she'd walked into a lion's den.

Standing inside was a man who looked like he belonged on the cover of a luxury magazine. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in black trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his forearms flexed as he scrolled through his phone. His dark hair was perfectly tousled, jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and his entire presence screamed danger, power, and zero patience.

But it wasn't just his looks that made her breath catch—it was the energy he radiated. Cold. Controlled. Dominant.

He glanced up from his phone, clearly expecting someone else.

"Marc—" he began, then stopped short, his eyes narrowing when they landed on her.

His gaze swept down to the trolley, then snapped back to her face. He noticed the smudge on her lip before she did, and a slow sneer curled on his mouth—amused and disgusted all at once.

"Seriously?" he scoffed, his voice low but laced with contempt. "This is the professionalism Grand Hayat stands by?" He gestured lazily toward her mouth, as though she wasn't even worth a full sentence.

Annabelle blinked, confused. Then she turned slightly and caught a glimpse of her reflection in the elevator's polished walls. A tiny smear of pecan filling clung to the corner of her mouth. Barely there.

But he didn't care. He had already judged her.

"You know," he continued coldly, "wiping it off won't undo the fact you were clearly sampling food meant for the guests. You're a walking embarrassment to your uniform."

Annabelle's chest tightened with fury. Her hands curled into fists at her sides.

"Excuse me?" she snapped, her voice sharp, cutting through the silence. "Don't go around throwing judgments like confetti. You don't know anything."

The pecan smear? That wasn't even her dish. Nora had begged her to try the flavor before serving it to the banquet team. She had tasted it. One quick check. That was it. But this man? He had painted her as unprofessional without knowing a damn thing.

She muttered under her breath, not caring if he heard, "You're the type who thinks everyone's a thief just because you don't trust your own shadow."

She should've kept her mouth shut.

Wrong move.

He took two deliberate steps forward. Each one echoed in the metal box like a countdown. His eyes gleamed with something darker than anger—dominance, maybe even arrogance. His entire demeanor shifted from annoyed to predatory.

Then, in one swift motion, he reached out, twisted her right hand behind her back, and leaned in, his face inches from hers.

Annabelle gasped, her back pressing into the cold elevator wall.

"You don't even know who I am," he growled, voice dangerously low. "So what the hell are you doing in the presidential lift?"

Her heart thundered in her chest, but she didn't back down. Even as his grip tightened, she stared him down with every ounce of defiance she had.

"You have no right to touch me," she spat. "Even if you're some big-shot assistant to the new president, that doesn't give you a free pass to act like a thug."

The moment the word "assistant" left her lips, his expression shifted. Cold amusement curled at the corners of his mouth.

"Assistant?" he echoed, his tone mocking. "Sweetheart... you really need to catch up."

Before she could blink, he grabbed her chin, tilting her face upward. His thumb skimmed dangerously close to her lips, his breath warm against her cheek as his eyes dropped to her mouth.

Annabelle stiffened.

Was he going to kiss her? In an elevator? After humiliating her like that?

Hell. No.

From the corner of her eye, Annabelle spotted a flicker of salvation—the glowing digital display above the doors showed the elevator had reached the 43rd floor, her destination.

Relief surged through her, mingling with pure rage. Without wasting a second, she shifted her weight, lifted her heel, and slammed it down hard on his foot, channeling every shred of fury, humiliation, and adrenaline into the strike.

"Ow—what the—" he growled, staggering back with a sharp intake of breath, clutching his foot as pain lanced through him.

Right then, the elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, as if the universe itself had conspired in her favor.

Annabelle didn't look back.

She bolted out like a shot, her heart hammering in her chest, leaving behind a stunned and limping Richard Barton as the doors slowly closed.

Annabelle bolted out, pushing the trolley so fast she nearly left a trail of smoke behind her. She delivered the dessert tray to Room 4306 with trembling hands and a heart that refused to calm down.

By the time she returned to the kitchen, the staff was already lining up, preparing for the private dining cabin inspection.

The manager motioned for her to follow quickly.

Her shoes barely touched the floor as they entered the cabin, footsteps muffled against the plush carpet. Everyone was already seated. Elegant lighting. Gleaming cutlery. High-stakes tension.

And there he was.

Seated at the head of the table, exuding raw authority, sat the man from the elevator—now dressed in a tailored black suit, cufflinks gleaming under the crystal chandelier. Executives flanked him. A stunning woman—clearly someone important—sat beside him, chatting softly.

Richard Barton.

Her new boss.

Annabelle froze mid-step. Her lungs forgot how to breathe.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

She felt the blood drain from her face. Please, God, let him have short-term memory loss.

Forcing her limbs to move, she straightened her shoulders, wiped the panic from her face, and plastered on a tight, professional smile. She bowed politely and began serving soup, her hands praying not to tremble.

She was careful—calculated. She served the first executive. Then the second. Her eyes avoided Richard like he was the sun itself.

Then came the woman beside him. Elegant. Poised.

Annabelle stepped forward to serve her—just one smooth motion.

But fate had other plans.

Her heel caught on the edge of the trolley wheel.

In slow motion, she stumbled forward.

The bowl in her hand tilted. The steaming hot soup slipped.

And landed directly in Richard Barton's lap.

The entire room fell silent.

Gasps echoed from across the table.

Annabelle's eyes widened in horror as she watched the golden liquid soak into his charcoal slacks. A faint hiss of pain escaped his lips as he shoved his chair back.

Then his eyes lifted to hers—fiery, furious, and unforgiving.

No words were needed.

Annabelle stood frozen, tray still in hand, legs locked in place, her brain screaming—

I'm so dead.