All Chapters of His Billion-Dollar Secret: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Amara’s POVThe morning started like every other at Cruz Holdings—with Damian Cruz finding yet another creative way to make me question why I hadn’t quit on day one.“Ms. Lopez,” he said the second I stepped inside, not even giving me the courtesy of putting my bag down. His voice was sharp, precise, carrying across the floor like an announcement everyone was waiting to hear. “You’re off the Johnson account.”My brain stuttered. I froze in the middle of the office, fingers clutching my bag strap. “What? Why?”“You’re not ready.” His tone was final, like a slammed door. “That project requires precision, not… enthusiasm.”Excuse me? Enthusiasm? Was I supposed to start waving pompoms?My fists curled at my sides. “You mean intelligence. And for your information, I caught three contract errors last week that your senior associate missed.”For the briefest moment, something flickered in his expression. His jaw ticked, but those cold eyes of his stayed steady. “You’re still off the account.

Amara’s POVBy Wednesday, I was convinced Damian Cruz woke up every morning asking himself: How can I ruin Amara’s life today?The answer, apparently, was to dump me in a meeting with the finance division armed with zero context and a single sheet of numbers.“Present this.” he said flatly, sliding the paper across my desk.I blinked at it. “Present what? This is barely a grocery list.”“Exactly.” His storm-gray eyes gleamed like he wanted me to fail. “Let’s see how you handle pressure.”I wanted to throttle him. “You’re setting me up.”“You’re here to learn.” His lips curved the slightest fraction. “Consider this a lesson.”A lesson, huh? More like sabotage. Still, I bit my tongue before I said something that would get me fired. Fine. If he wanted a show, I’d give him one.By the time the meeting started, my stomach was in knots. The long, polished conference table stretched out in front of me like a battlefield. Finance execs with sharp suits and sharper eyes stared expectantly whil

Amara’s POVWhen Damian Cruz said, “You’re coming with me.” I nearly choked on my coffee.“Excuse me?”He didn’t even look up from his computer, fingers flying across the keyboard like he was signing off death warrants. “Dinner. Tonight. The Santos investors. Be ready at seven.”I blinked. “Dinner—as in, with people? Important people? And me?”Finally, he looked up, storm-gray eyes slicing through me. His lips were pressed into that infuriating line I was beginning to know too well. “Unless you’re busy alphabetizing the file cabinet, yes, with you.”I narrowed my eyes. He was plotting something—I could feel it. Probably hoping I’d trip over my own words in front of billionaires and tank my credibility for good.“Fine,” I said, raising my chin. “But I’m not ordering your wine.”The faint twitch of his lips almost made me laugh. Almost.---By seven, I was regretting every life decision that had led me to this moment.My reflection in the restaurant’s glossy windows stared back at me: s

Amara’s POVBy Wednesday morning, I’d convinced myself that maybe—just maybe—Damian Cruz would give me one peaceful day.Wishful thinking.The moment I stepped into the office, a thick stack of reports was already waiting on my desk. No note. No explanation. Just paper threatening to bury me alive.I barely had time to set my coffee down before his voice carried from his glass-walled office. “Lopez. In here.”Great. The Ice King summons.I slipped inside, clutching my notebook like armor. He didn’t even glance up from his laptop. “You’ll attend the client call at ten.”I blinked. “Client call—as in, I’ll be… listening?”“Speaking,” he corrected. His tone was razor-sharp, no room for argument. “You’ve reviewed the reports. You’ll present your analysis.”I stared at him, incredulous. “You’re kidding.”His eyes finally lifted, locking on mine with that infuriating coolness. “Do I look like I’m joking?”“No, you look like you haven’t laughed since the Ice Age.” I muttered.The corner of h

Amara’s POVI was starting to think Damian Cruz had a secret laboratory somewhere, where he spent nights concocting new and creative ways to ruin my week.Monday: impossible deadlines.Tuesday: snide remarks in front of the team.Wednesday: making me re-do a seventy-page report because “the margins were inconsistent.”And now, Thursday?He stood in my cubicle, all crisp suit and icy stare, holding out a stack of files like a grim reaper delivering death notices.“These need to be cross-checked against supplier contracts by the end of the day.” he said, tone flat.I blinked at the tower of papers. “By the end of the day?”“Yes.” He set them down with a thud that rattled my stapler. “Is there a problem?”“Only that it’s humanly impossible unless I grow eight extra arms.”His lips twitched—almost a smirk, almost amusement. But then the mask snapped back into place. “Consider it a test of efficiency.”God, I hated him. Hated how he always acted like I was some rookie stumbling through qui