The Billionaire's Hidden Love

The elevator doors opened with a smooth chime, revealing a floor drenched in silver light and silence. Zuwena Nassor clutched her file tightly, her palms damp with sweat, her heart pounding against her ribs like a war drum. Everything about this place felt foreign the polished marble floors, the robotic silence, the glass walls that made her feel exposed and invisible at once. She took one hesitant step out of the lift and found herself face to face with a receptionist who didn’t bother to look up. “Name?” the woman asked flatly. “Zuwena Nassor. I have an interview. Ten o’clock.” The woman finally glanced at her, lips curling subtly as she scanned her from head to toe as if Zuwena’s entire being had already failed the unspoken dress code. Her simple navy blouse and second-hand skirt looked laughably out of place among the designer heels and crisp suits. “Sit. Wait,” the receptionist muttered and pointed at a glass bench. Zuwena sat, ignoring the subtle stares from a pair of assistants passing by. This was what she had prepared for a place where people didn’t smile easily, where names like hers didn’t open doors. But she hadn’t come to make friends. She had come to survive. Twenty minutes later, the elevator chimed again. This time, everyone stood. Phones were placed down, backs straightened, silence sharpened. He had arrived. Zuwena watched as a tall man in a charcoal suit strode past the reception desk. His movements were efficient, his face unreadable chiseled jaw, sharp eyes, dark eyebrows drawn together in a permanent frown. He looked like he owned everything he saw. He probably did. He stopped in front of her. “You’re Zuwena Nassor?” His voice was low, firm, and distant. She stood quickly, file in hand. “Yes. Sir.” “Follow me. You’re late.” Her breath caught. I was here since “I said follow.” Without another word, he turned and walked down the hallway, not even checking to see if she kept up. They entered a large office with floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking the Indian Ocean. It was breathtaking yet cold. No personal photos, no warm touches. Just glass, steel, and power. He sat behind the desk and gestured at the chair opposite him. Zuwena sat, back straight, hands clenching the file in her lap. My name is Ayaan Khalid,” he said, folding his hands. “I don’t like excuses. I don’t like lateness. I don’t tolerate incompetence. Do you understand?” “Yes, sir.” “I’ve had five assistants this year. All quit. Some cried. One fainted. The job is brutal. Are you sure you want it?” She swallowed. Yes. “Why?” Because I need it. His eyes didn’t blink. Need isn’t a qualification. Zuwena opened her file and slid it toward him. I’m a graduate in communications. I worked at a local NGO for two years. I’m organized, fast, and discreet. I won’t ask questions I’m not supposed to. I just… need a chance. There was a pause. He didn’t touch the file. Then, he stood and walked to the window. Silence settled. You’re honest. That’s rare. He turned. You start today. Zuwena blinked. I… today? You said you needed it. I’m giving you a chance. Don’t waste it. She stood quickly. Thank you, sir. I don’t need thanks. I need results. Later That Afternoon The rest of the day was a blur. Instructions flew at her like bullets. Ayaan’s schedule was minute-by-minute precision. She had to reschedule a board meeting, reject three calls from a woman named Laila who sounded far too familiar and order a rare bottle of wine from a boutique shop in South Africa, all within an hour. By six o’clock, she was exhausted. She sat alone in the small assistant’s office adjacent to Ayaan’s. As she typed up his next-day itinerary, she caught her reflection in the glass wall tired eyes, smudged lipstick, but still standing. There was a soft knock. She turned. Ayaan was leaning at the doorframe, arms crossed. You stayed. She nodded, unsure if it was a question or an accusation. I wanted to finish the day’s schedule. He stepped in. The last one left before lunch. She said I was impossible. Zuwena dared a small smile. You are. But I’ve known worse. He raised an eyebrow. Really? Yes. Try surviving four months in a public school where the head teacher throws chalk at you for sneezing. Ayaan gave a low, unexpected laugh. It was quick, almost reluctant. Zuwena stood. Should I leave now? He nodded. Yes. But be here by six tomorrow. Morning? He smirked. Is there another six? She grabbed her bag and left, heart pounding not from fear this time, but from something more dangerous. Interest. Buguruni Later that Night Her grandmother was waiting with warm tea and a worried frown. “How was it?” she asked. Zuwena smiled, sipping carefully. He didn’t fire me. That’s a start. Her grandmother sighed. “You’re walking into a world that doesn’t welcome girls like us.” Zuwena met her eyes. “Then I’ll make them regret ever doubting me.” Elsewhere in the City – A Private Villa Rehema Khalid sipped her wine as she watched a photo on her tablet Zuwena’s employee ID. “Who is she?” she asked her assistant coldly. “New hire. Personal assistant. Applied three times before she was shortlisted.” Rehema narrowed her eyes. “She looks familiar.” The assistant hesitated. “Her father Nassor Juma used to work for the Khalids. Years ago. He was accused of.. I remember. Her tone turned icy. Keep an eye on her. And make sure Ayaan never finds out who she really is.