WORLD OF TWISTS: The Billionaire's Slave

[VERONICA'S POV] "Are you ready, Veronica?" the TV news producer asked me. I nodded nervously. I kept glancing at my phone. Harrison kept calling! "Where the hell are you?!" his texts read. "You know I'll find you, bitch." "Let me hold that for you," the producer said, glancing at his watch. "We have just a few seconds. Hurry, get on set!" I tossed the phone to him, and walked around the large news table, adjusting my blue suit. I sat, trembling and swallowing nothing. The tears were gathering in my eyes. I bowed my head, muttering under my breath, "Please, Harrison, let me be for at least this time. This is a live broadcast." As though he would hear it. Harrison Templeton was my master; and I was his slave. Literally. And the fear of him finding me here was clutching at my throat, so hard I could barely breathe. But if he texted that he'd be here, then nothing could stop him. Nothing ever stopped him. I worked as a television presenter, even though my master had severely warned me to resign from all of my jobs and focus on him fully, for life. But I needed this job to support my father, and my young brother, who was in school. Sometimes I'd ask myself why I still had to take this risk for my father. Since he was the reason my life was doomed like this! Just a week ago, my father had done something very terrible - although it was a mistake - that landed me into this biggest trouble of my life. And... "You're not concentrated, Vero," Martins the camera guy snapped into my thoughts. His face was knotted in a merciless scowl. I stared at the paper in front of me, wondering if I could ever deliver this news. Harrison's text messages still flashed in my eyes and rung in my ears. The producer raised his hand. "Aaaand in three, two, one, action!" I looked into the dazzling studio lights and put up my professional smile, even though my problems and fears were eating deep into me. "Hello, my name is Veronica Roberts, and you're welcome to—" Just that moment, there came a loud bang on the newsroom door. Someone bursted through, followed by five other figures. A lump caught on my throat; I knew who just entered. And I knew who he was here for. But I kept reading; it was part of my training to stay focused. But, in this case... "You still have the guts to sit there and read that nonsense?!" Harrison Templeton thundered from the middle of the room. He was surrounded by five of his personal bodyguards. The TV security men must have been easily subdued outside. The crewmen were alarmed. I kept looking straight at the camera. The sound engineer would hold out the backset noise, but not for too long. "What the hell are you doing interrupting a live news?!" the producer, who probably had no idea who he was speaking to, whispered hotly. Harrison didn't reply him. I was sure his eyes were on me. He was thinking of what to do for me. The tears returned again in my eyes. The embarrassment and shame and fear coloured my cheeks, and made me tremble. This was my first job after my promotion as a newscaster and I was messing it up. Because of the presence of one man. "The US government has assured..." I tried to carry on, but the next thing I felt on my face was the splitting force from a gold wristwatch hurled at me. Harrison's wristwatch. There was a surprised hush backset. A red cut mark appeared on my left cheek. The tears returned again, burning and streaming down my face now, unrestrained. Just like the blood. But I kept reading the news. I kept doing my job, trying to make Harrison realize the devilishness of what he was doing. I could see him from the corner of my eyes. He was looking straight at me, surprised that I was still sitting down there. He wasn't going to come into the camera's view, would he? I flipped the paper. "In a meeting with the Russian prime minister..." Then I saw him bursting through to my desk, right into the camera of a live news, viewed worldwide. "Man, you gotta stop this!" the producer cried, but he couldn't help matters, as a bodyguard held a taser to his neck. "Call a break, Vero! Someone call the cops!" It was too late to do any of these. Harrison grabbed me by the red hair. Pulled me straight up from the chair. "You had the effrontery to sit here while I talk to you, huh?" he snarled. "I beg you, my lord, please," I whispered, trying in vain to break through those cold eyes. "Let me just finish this broadcast. I promise this is the last, sir. My salary is almost due. My poor father—" Whack! His hand dashed across my face, bringing with it a seething pain. I yelped and tumbled across the room, crashing into a tripod. The camera which fell after me missed my leg by a hairline. "You dare mention your father to me, huh?" Master Templeton barked, his face etched in surprise. "After what he did to me? You—" He cut himself short and turned to the crewmen shivering in the suddenly cold newsroom. "And did I hear someone say, call the cops?" he asked, taking out his phone. "When I shall call them myself?" Everyone stood there, sweating and wondering who this man was. Was he really going to call the cops? their faces seemed to ask. I only sobbed; they had no idea what Harrison was capable of. "Hello, is this the sheriff, himself?" he said into the phone, which was on loud speaker. "Yes, it is," the sheriff answered. "And who are — Oh God! My bad! Good evening to you, Master Harrison Templeton. What can I do for you, please?" "I interrupted a live national television, and pulled the presenter out by the hair, because she's my slave. What do you have to say about that, Mr Sheriff?" "Um, as long as no one's hurt, sir..." the sheriff stammered. "What the hell!" the producer cried, his eyes growing larger. Harrison wasn't done. "Sheriff, actually someone's hurt." He glanced at me. Another awkward silence from the phone. Then: "Well, sir, I guess you're in total control of the situation." Harrison ended the call. His eyes roamed around the studio at the men and women cowered in fear. There was no smile on his face. The TV cameras didn't stop rolling; the camera guy was crazy over "content". Someone who could easily get away with such a crime, and still have the audacity to report himself to the police. That was Harrison Templeton. He stood over 6ft tall, with silky-wet overflowing hair, a jawline cut out by a master sculptor. Then there was his eyes. They had the colour of the ocean. They would hold you with invisible hands and transfix you into thinking you had been hypnotized. "Take this trash of a girl out of here," he ordered his guards. There was a particular guard among them who went for me first. He was gentle, but made his boss believe he was harsh towards me. He dragged me towards one of the twenty waiting cars outside. When we got home, I would be punished properly. Now, here was what happened a week ago. How I came to become this cold-hearted man's slave...