The Billionaire Boss

POV: First-person.

The relentless chirping of my phone alarm drills straight through my skull. I flinch, groaning as I slap a blind hand across the bedside table. My fingers graze cold wood, knocking over a glass of water before finally connecting with the vibrating phone. I swipe the screen to kill the noise. Silence floods the room, but the pounding behind my eyes takes its place.

I pry one eye open, squinting against the sliver of morning sunlight slicing through my curtains. My mouth tastes like old pennies and stale regret. A wicked hangover gnaws at the edges of my brain, a lingering souvenir from a weekend I barely remember. Then, reality crashes over me. It is Monday. My first day at Apex Designs.

Adrenaline shoots through my veins, instantly chasing away the urge to pull the duvet over my head. I throw my legs over the edge of the mattress, my bare feet hitting the cold floorboards. A jolt of nervous energy hums beneath my skin. I check the time: seven-forty-five. I need to be at the office by nine. Plenty of time to scrub the weekend off my face.

I drag myself into the bathroom and grip the edges of the porcelain sink. My reflection is a jump scare. Bloodshot eyes stare back at me from a pale face, my hair a tangled nest of bad decisions. I look like an extra from a zombie flick. A steaming hot shower and two mugs of black coffee work a minor miracle, scrubbing the grime away and jump-starting my brain. I stand before my bedroom mirror, slipping into a crisp, professional black top. I try to convince myself the frantic fluttering in my abdomen is just normal first-day jitters. I know architecture. I know how to do this job. I just need to breathe.

I am leaning close to the mirror, holding my breath as I carefully swipe mascara through my lashes.

The bedroom door bursts open. The wood smacks against the wall with a deafening crack.

I flinch. The mascara wand jabs straight into my eyelid, smearing a thick black streak across the eyeshadow I just spent ten minutes blending.

"Where in the seven kingdoms of hell have you been?" Tess bellows. She marches into the center of the room, her eyes wide, her hair a wild, sleep-tousled mess.

Gia crowds in right behind her, arms crossed tightly over her chest. "Maya, we were worried sick! We thought something awful happened to you."

I drop the mascara wand on the dresser, grabbing a cotton swab to scrape the ruined makeup off my skin. "Jesus Christ, you scared the life out of me. Look at my eye!"

"Stuff your eye!" Tess snaps, planting her hands firmly on her hips. "Where have you been all weekend? We thought you brought that guy from the club back here, but the apartment was empty."

Gia drops onto the edge of my unmade bed, bouncing slightly on the mattress. "Then we figured you went to his place. We expected you back Saturday morning. You didn't show. Your phone was dead."

"Do you have any idea how scared we were?" Tess points a sharp finger at me. "I was ready to call the police. We thought you were lying face down in a ditch."

"Maybe you should have considered that before letting me wander off into the night with a random stranger," I grumble, tossing the blackened cotton swab into the trash bin.

Gia shrugs, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "You guys seemed super into each other. He was hot. We figured you went to get a little nookie. Speaking of, how was it? Must have been mind-blowing if he kept you locked up all weekend."

I grab my hairbrush and lob it at her. Gia ducks, giggling as the brush clatters against the wall.

"You want to know why I didn't come back Saturday?" I turn to face them, my chest rising and falling. "Let me tell you exactly why. Because I was in Vegas."

The room goes dead silent.

"Vegas?" Tess and Gia echo in unison.

I nod, my stomach twisting. "Yes. As in Las Vegas."

Tess exchanges a bewildered look with Gia. Gia's jaw practically unhinges.

"I don't remember a damn thing," I confess, rubbing my throbbing temples. "I was so drunk, I somehow ended up on a private jet flying across the Atlantic."

"With that guy?" Tess asks, her voice dropping to an incredulous whisper.

"Yes. With that guy." I grab my blazer off the back of the chair. "And that isn't even the worst part. We got married by Elvis. I am legally married."

More silence. Thick, suffocating silence.

They just stare at me.

"You got married?" Tess sputters, shaking her head as if trying to dislodge water from her ears.

I nod again, picking up my lipstick and uncapping it with trembling fingers.

Gia leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Wait. Let me get this straight. You met a guy at a club. He flew you on a private jet to Nevada, and he married you." I nod, swiping the color across my lips. Gia chuckles, scratching the side of her nose. "Tell me you at least put out."

"Gia!" I grab a bottle of makeup primer and hurl it at her. She dodges it, falling back onto the pillows and howling with laughter.

Tess steps closer, her expression turning serious. "Maya, who is this guy?"

I shrug, feeling a fresh wave of panic crest in my chest. I walk over to my nightstand, pick up the heavy, embossed card he gave me, and thrust it toward Tess.

"I don't even know. All I have is his name. Declan Vance something."

Tess takes the card. Her eyes scan the text. Her breath catches. She looks at the card, looks at me, and looks back at the card. Her eyes bug out of her head.

"Oh my god," Tess gasps. Her hands start to shake. "Maya... Declan Vance Voss. That is who you married?"

Gia leaps off the bed, snatching the card right out of Tess's fingers. "No way! I knew I recognized him!" She lets out a piercing shriek. "Maya, do you have any idea who this man is?"

I frown, looking back and forth between their panicked faces. "No. Am I supposed to?"

"Yes!" They scream it together, making me wince.

"You of all people should know him," Gia insists, scrambling to pull her phone out of her pocket. Her thumbs fly across the screen. "He is a renowned architect. A billionaire. The hottest, most ruthless CEO in the country." She shoves the phone screen inches from my nose. "Look. Is this him?"

I squint at the bright screen. It is a financial news article. The photo shows a tall man in a sharp, tailored suit, his dark hair styled flawlessly, his jaw set in a hard, uncompromising line. His eyes pierce right through the camera lens. It is the same face that haunted my dreams all weekend. The same face that smirked at me from the back of that sleek car just hours ago.

My pounding head throbs harder, a sharp spike of pain drilling behind my eyes. This is why he looked familiar at the club. I had seen him in architecture magazines.

"Yes," I whisper, my throat tight. "That's him."

"You lucky bitch!" Gia squeals, hopping back up onto my mattress and treating it like a trampoline. "You didn't just sleep with him. You married a literal billionaire! You're loaded!"

I snatch my jacket off the bed. My heart is hammering against my ribs, frantic and irregular. Panic tightens my chest. "Stop it. I can't deal with this right now. I have to go to work. I cannot be late on my first day."

"Why even go?" Gia sings, bouncing higher. "You are rich now, Mrs. Voss!"

"Get off my bed! I just made it." I lunge forward, grabbing her ankle. I yank it hard. Gia tumbles sideways, rolling off the mattress and hitting the floor with a thud.

"Ow! I think you bruised my tailbone," she pouts, rubbing her backside.

"Fix my bed," I snap, tossing a stray pillow at her head. "I am leaving. I am already running late."

"Have a great day, Mrs. Voss!" Gia calls out, giggling from the floor.

I flip her off without looking back, marching straight out the front door.

The crisp morning air hits my face, but it does nothing to clear my scrambled mind. I refuse to process this fiasco. I shove the image of Declan Vance Voss into a dark corner of my brain. I need to focus on my career. I worked too hard for this opportunity. I will not let a drunken Vegas mistake derail my future. I am never drinking another drop of alcohol for the rest of my natural life.

The drive to the office is a blur. I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white, weaving through London traffic like a stunt driver. Please do not ask me how fast I was going. I fully expect a mountain of speeding tickets to arrive in my mail next week. But I slide into the parking garage and sprint toward the lobby elevators, glancing at my watch.

Eight fifty-five. Five minutes to spare.

I step out onto the executive floor of Apex Designs. The space is massive, an open-plan marvel of modern architecture with gleaming glass partitions, high ceilings, and sunlight pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows.

"Maya."

I spin around at the sound of my name. A young woman with a bright smile and a sleek blonde bob walks toward me, holding a clipboard. I recognize her from my interview.

"Hi, I'm Paige. The executive assistant for this floor."

"Right. Hi, Paige." I force a smile, trying to slow my racing breath.

"If you're ready, I will show you around the floor first, and then we can review the CEO's schedule for the day."

"Sounds great. Lead the way."

I follow her through the glass security doors. The main floor is buzzing with quiet, focused energy. Rows of fancy workstations are equipped with dual, high-tech monitors displaying complex architectural drafts. People in sharp business attire move with purpose.

"This will be your desk," Paige says, pointing to a sleek, minimalist desk positioned right outside a massive corner office. "You already know where the boss's office is from your interview."

I nod, letting my eyes sweep the area. It feels surreal. I am finally here.

Paige doesn't waste a second. She taps her pen against her clipboard. "Okay, let's get down to business. He is very particular. He likes things done a specific way, and he does not tolerate deviations. For instance, he requires his coffee on his desk at exactly seven-forty-five every morning. Black coffee, with a small pitcher of skimmed milk on the side."

"Got it. Seven-forty-five."

"At eight o'clock, he expects breakfast. A sesame bagel, smoked salmon, and fat-free cream cheese. He eats this religiously. Every single day."

"Black coffee, sesame bagel, salmon." I repeat the items, committing them to memory.

Paige leans in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "A little helpful advice from someone who survived the last few months. He works around the clock. He practically lives here. Because of that, he is often exhausted and extremely grumpy. If you see him pull at his collar or loosen his tie... stay away. If he rubs his temples, it means he is angry. Do not approach unless he specifically calls for you."

I swallow hard, feeling a bead of sweat form at my hairline.

"If he does call you in while he is in that mood," Paige continues, "do not speak. Just nod. Nodding helps. And never, ever enter his office without knocking and waiting for him to gesture you inside. Do you understand?"

I glance over at the heavy oak door of the empty corner office. I gulp. This man sounds like an absolute tyrant. A clinical control freak. Working for him is going to be an unrelenting nightmare.

"I understand," I say.

"Perfect." Paige smiles, her cheerful demeanor returning instantly. "You have the gist of it. Honestly, I am sure you two will get along fine. He should be out of his morning meeting in a few minutes. Then we can head inside and introduce you."

Paige leads me toward the staff kitchen. It is pristine, stocked with stainless steel espresso machines, glass-front fridges full of expensive beverages, and rows of gourmet snacks. At least they feed the inmates well.

I fix myself a caramel latte, leaning against the marble counter and watching the design team collaborate through the glass walls. The nervous energy in my stomach begins to settle into a steady rhythm. I can do this.

Ten minutes later, Paige comes bouncing back into the kitchen area. "He is back from the boardroom. Let's go get you acquainted."

I put my coffee cup down and follow her through the maze of cubicles toward the corner office. Her wording strikes me as odd. Introduce you. I find it baffling every time she says it. I met the boss during my final interview. He was an older gentleman with a kind smile and striking silver hair. Why would I need a formal introduction? Maybe she just forgot I already met him.

We reach the heavy oak door. Paige knocks twice. A low, muffled voice answers from within. She pushes the door open and steps aside, gesturing for me to enter.

I walk into the sprawling office. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a staggering view of the London skyline. The sunlight catches a massive, abstract painting hanging on the far wall. The bold strokes of crimson and charcoal immediately grab my attention. My eyes lock onto the canvas, analyzing the chaotic beauty of the brushwork.

"Mr. Voss," Paige chimes in, her voice bouncing off the high ceiling. "This is your new executive assistant, Maya."

I tear my gaze away from the painting. I turn around, a polite, professional smile plastered across my face, ready to greet the silver-haired gentleman who hired me.

My eyes land on the massive mahogany desk.

The man sitting behind it looks up from his paperwork.

My breath vanishes from my lungs.

Dark, tailored suit. Sharp jawline. Piercing eyes that lock instantly onto mine.

The room seems to tilt on its axis. The blood drains from my face, rushing straight down to my toes. A deafening ringing fills my ears. The polite smile slides off my mouth, replaced by a hollow gasp. My heart plummets straight to the pit of my stomach, crashing into a thousand panicked pieces.

I stare at the billionaire CEO. The tyrant. My secret Vegas husband.

"You," I whisper.