The Unfilial Boss Woman

Patrick stood from his executive chair, done for the day. At 8pm sharp, his personal assistant Jeff Hudson knocked and stepped into the ash-grey office.

"Good evening, boss. Are you leaving for home now?" Jeff asked.

Patrick, dressed in a red shirt and black trousers, stared at Jeff like he was trash. He gave no reply. Instead, he stepped out, grabbed his black coat from the chair, and slipped it on to shield his cool dark skin from the cold. He adjusted his necktie, snatched his briefcase from the desk, and walked out without a backward glance, leaving Jeff speechless.

Patrick owned a vast range of secret businesses across the state, and his mind churned with thoughts—his parents’ constant pressure to bring home a wife, the competitors plotting to take him down. He kept multiple identities hidden; no one knew the real Patrick Anderson. His strategies stayed coded.

Patrick exhaled a cold breath as the elevator on the 8th floor carried him down from his 10-storey multimillion-dollar hotel. His bodyguards flanked him as he stepped out and headed for the waiting black Prado Jeep.

Patrick glanced back at Jeff rushing to join him, then climbed into the back seat without waiting. Jeff slid behind the wheel while the bodyguards shut the door. He started the engine and drove toward the Anderson residence, careful not to anger his boss.

Jeff pulled into the mansion grounds and parked. Patrick stepped out and strode toward the front entrance, his black shoes clicking against the cement. Anger simmered in his blood as he approached the 4-storey mansion.

Patrick entered the living room. The new maid, Loveth Logan, greeted him. “Good evening, sir. Welcome home.”

Patrick paused, stared at Loveth irritably, then walked past without a word. He tossed his briefcase onto the milk-coloured couch, shrugged off his coat, and draped it over his shoulder before retrieving the briefcase and heading for the elevator.

His mother, Mrs. Eleanor Anderson, a 70-year-old woman slowed by kneecap pain, stepped from her ground-floor room. She frowned at Loveth, who was still mopping the tiles, then spotted Patrick as the elevator dinged open.

“Son…” Her voice trailed off.

Patrick paused and turned, already knowing what she and his father wanted: an heir. He had four older sisters, all married; his mother had given birth to him ten years after his immediate elder sister.

Patrick clutched his briefcase tighter, frowning as he walked back to his mother. She smiled and pulled him into a warm hug.

“Good evening, Mother,” he said, his greeting barely above a whisper.

“Welcome, son. How was your day?”

“Fine, Mother.”

They sat on the executive couch. She asked, “Son, when will you finally marry? Your father and I aren’t getting any younger. Don’t you want us to see the next heir of Anderson Corporation?”

Patrick swallowed, his forehead suddenly damp.

“Son…” she pressed.

“Mom, don’t worry about dying yet. I’ll think about a bride soon—probably this week or next.”

“Okay, son.” She smiled.

Patrick stood to leave, but his mother continued. “What about your fiancée Willow Albert? Why not marry her at once? What’s the matter, son?”

Patrick exhaled hotly and looked away, meeting Loveth’s eyes. She smiled and blushed, returning happily to her mopping. His dark grey eyes scanned her waist in the pink maid uniform. She looked beautiful—cute, even. He wondered who had hired her.

Still, Patrick loosened his necktie, rolled it in his palms, and shifted his gaze back to his mother.

“Mom, Willow left without telling me. And she’s refused to give any explanation.” He lied, of course. He couldn’t tell his mother the truth—that Willow was a cheap slut, always horny and ready for any available man.

“But son, I spoke to Willow yesterday. She said you’re both fine and still together.”

Patrick stiffened, staring at his mother in disbelief. He forced a smile and a short laugh. “I’m tired, Mom. I’ll get back to you. Next week I’ll look for a bride, since that’s what you want.”

“Okay, son.” She smiled again.

Patrick turned to leave, but her voice stopped him once more. “Son, have you met Loveth Logan? She’s the new maid from Westwood. Her mother is one of the charitable women helping build the economy.”

Patrick paused and looked back at Loveth, who had finished mopping. She bowed her head respectfully under his cold stare.

“How do you see her? Your eldest sister Isabel Owen recommended her. She’s like a daughter to me and helps me a great deal—I’m too old to do much myself.”

“Come here, Loveth,” Mrs. Eleanor called, beckoning her over. “Loveth, meet my son, Master Patrick Anderson, sole heir to Anderson Corporation.”

Loveth stepped forward and bowed again. “It’s an honour to meet you, sir.”

Patrick stood speechless, sinking into thought. 'Was this some temptation or setup by his mother?' Loveth’s shining black eyes, pointed nose, naturally pink lips, and long blonde hair in a ponytail caught his attention. Her skin looked flawless, like milk and honey. He assessed her until his mother’s voice snapped him out of it.

“Son, I see you like Loveth. She’s also a very good cook. I can’t help but feel younger around her.”

“Hmm.” Patrick narrowed his eyes at Loveth, then answered his mother. “Fine, Mother. Good to see she’s taking care of you. I have to go upstairs—I have an important online business meeting at 10pm.”

Without waiting for a reply, Patrick turned and walked to the elevator, riding it to the fourth floor.

“Fụck!” he cursed as he stepped out into his private sitting room. The two maids there greeted him quickly. “Good evening, boss. Welcome home.”

“Shut up and get out!” he thundered. They ran out, leaving him alone. The fourth floor was his exclusively; the third and second floors belonged to his elder sisters when they visited.

Patrick threw his coat and necktie onto the nearest couch, dropped his briefcase, and walked to the bar. He hated nothing more than the thought of ending up with a loose woman.

Patrick grabbed a bottle of wine, opened it, and drank straight from the bottle until it was empty. The alcohol hit him fast. He staggered, sat on a stool, and opened another bottle.

“Hate you, Willow,” he muttered.

Just then, the sitting-room door slid open.