The Irresistible Billionaire

Chapter 6

I thought Tamara would kill me when she saw me sneaking out of her son's house, but no, it wasn't her who wanted to kill me—it was my legs. My body. My poor... poor sore lips down there.

Fever? Nope, that wasn’t the case, it just "hurt." But nothing a little money couldn't distract.

"Auntie..." I sighed as she slid another envelope toward me for the week.

As much as I wanted to celebrate and jiggle my butt, I couldn’t. I was suffering. I was in pain.

But no regrets. Not at all.

It was one of the best and worst experiences of my life at the same time. It’s that moment when two opposite things coincide in a situation, and this one fit really well.

"You did what had to be done... just a little taken to another level compared to what I expected, but I’m assuming you have needs to fulfill. And I’m glad you trusted my son for it," she said frankly, patting my hand that was already, unknowingly, holding the money.

I winced, feeling awkward hearing her say it.

"Take this as an extra paycheck. Noticing how you limp your way. I’d also advise you to see a doctor as soon as possible today. I know someone," she said, grinning like she’d just won a gazillion-dollar lottery ticket.

"I'm fine, Auntie," I refused the offer, even though my whole body was killing me. I slipped the envelope into my pocket before she could change her mind and take it back from me.

"If you say so," she dismissed it with a sigh. "So..." she trailed off, and I was lost.

"Huh?"

"Did he somehow express anything that last night would make progress?" she eagerly asked. I could almost see her eyes shine, hoping for the answer she wanted to hear.

"I... don’t have an answer for that yet, Auntie. Maybe I’ll figure it out soon," I answered neutrally, just so her expectations wouldn’t fall flat, just left hanging.

"Okay, I’ll leave it to you then," Tamara excused herself, leaving painkillers like she’d already anticipated my pain and that she was an angel in disguise. She even left a gallon of ice cream in my freezer.

But out of everything she gave me today, money was what I salivated for.

Placing the envelope in my "treasure" box, I plopped myself in bed, grimacing as the "assault" of soreness shot through me.

"The things I do for my country," I muttered dramatically, biting my lip as my brain flashed back to what happened last night. "You're a beast, Johnny. Now I truly understand why women want you so bad."

And Tamara’s question about the "progress"—well, I too was already trembling to know whether I did it or not.

But... from the way he owned me, I knew that I sparked something in him. From what I knew and could state as a fact, Johnny never brings a woman home, never shares his bed with anyone, and never cuddles with the women he sleeps with.

"I’m special," I squealed like a lovesick teenager, hugging my pillow and enduring the hotness in my cheeks.

But all of my daydreaming came crashing down when work arrived, and Johnny’s bulldog expression greeted me on Monday morning.

He never really liked Mondays. But why was he acting like it was my fault that they were invented?

"Coffee, sir?" I asked when he summoned me to his office like he was king, and I needed to pick coffee beans for him, grind them myself, just to give him the finest drink for the morning.

His unprofessional look made him seem like he was about to attend a yacht party, but duty called.

That stereotypical billionaire look flashed right before my eyes, blinding my already poor eyesight.

"Where were you on Saturday night?" he questioned, his voice gravely, as if it was clear where he was coming from—hell.

My right eye started to twitch. Why was he asking? Did he figure out I was his mystery "lady masquerade"?

How?

Did he see me leave with his mother that morning? Oh, s**t! s**t!

I swallowed the truth hard enough that I almost choked on it. "Home, having the time of my life watching drama on TV. Why?" I asked, pivoting on my heels, taking his mug from the cabinet, and started making him a drink to ease that rising heat in his head.

He scoffed, standing up from his seat with a stomp. "You're asking why?" He blurted out. "Cass, I invited you. I even bought you a complete set of whatever you'll need! As my secretary and as your boss, you should know how to follow an order."

Pouring the coffee in the mug, I glanced at him, only to find him standing five feet away, arms crossed and feet apart.

His intense stare made my legs shake, but not as hard as they did after enduring the aftermath of his manliness pounding repeatedly inside me.

The tingles from that Saturday night made me clench my cunt. He was just standing there, but the effect was blowing me away like a hurricane. I knew how his size had wrecked me hard, that I still had to drink painkillers to this day.

"Well, sir, firstly, I clearly declined the offer. I already told you, your 'ticket to paradise' was yours, not mine. Secondly, I didn’t ask you to buy me anything at all," I clarified. Another scoff escaped his lips. "And lastly, that event wasn’t business-related. I have the freedom to refuse because I still have a handful of work waiting for me on my desk and at home, thanks to your indolence."

"Are you saying that it’s 'my' fault?" He leaned his hip on the counter, demanding an answer.

Putting three cubes of ice in his coffee, I stirred it before serving it right in front of him. "Coffee?" I offered, ignoring his questioning look about my truthful accusation.

I could see on his face that he was doing his best not to blow up as he took the mug from my hand and placed it on the counter.

"I think I forgot to add sugar," I muttered, ignoring how his stare could almost bore a hole through the middle of my forehead. "You're already a big boy. You have two hands, the left and the right. You'll survive adding what you need in that drink—"

"Where were you on Saturday night?" he repeated.

"I already told you—"

"Liar," he called me out simply, taking huge steps toward me until I was cornered. "You weren’t in your house. The people I called to fix your face said the receptionist saw you leave the building."

Another lump formed in my throat, my palm formed an ocean of sweat, and I felt like I needed to use the restroom.

Why was he doing this to me?

"What do you mean?" I managed, celebrating that my voice didn’t falter or stutter.

"You heard me," he uttered slowly, leaning in so close that my eyes crossed. "Where. Were. You. Last. Night?" he asked, enunciating each word.

"What do you mean by 'fix my face'?" I turned the topic sideways, causing his forehead to frown deeply.

"What?"

"Is my face deformed?" I quickly escaped from being cornered by him and rushed to look in the mirror.

My always colorful outfit was immaculately outdated.

I was trying to be simple, but the mint green headdress I wore was perfect for today. I kind of liked it. A bright red turtleneck under a purple cardigan, paired with a black pencil skirt with pink leggings underneath, and of course, my ultimate favorite—the never-dying leopard print kitten heels.

I looked weirdly fine.

But my face? What was wrong with it? Nothing. Just exaggerated colors, that’s it. What did he mean by "fix my face"?

"You're not answering my question."

"I treated myself to a quick stroll to unwind before I dug deep into papers because I was drowning in them. Maybe those people you hired to 'fix' my face went there while I was out," I excused.

Thankfully, my brain worked.

"I don’t think it’s necessary to know my whereabouts and what I did that night. I’ve already returned all of those bags to you yesterday morning. And I’m pretty sure you got yourself a woman. I’m no longer needed."

A sudden twitch of my lips happened as I listened to how bitter I sounded.

He squinted his eyes at me, most likely not fond of how I sounded.

"Your salary will be delayed for a week, you will work overtime the whole week, and you... will come with me to Seattle. Whether you like it or not," he managed my workload and didn’t even give me time to speak for myself.

"Why would I go to Seattle?"

"Because I said so."

"And why is my salary—"

"Because I said so," he repeated with finality, then took steps closer to me, taking my breath away once more.

His pace was threatening me, and every step he took slowly killed me.

I was nailed in place when he stood right in front of me, leaned forward, nose touching mine. My eyes, behind my glasses, were wide and unblinking.

His gaze fell to my lips that were painted in purple. Tilting his head to the side, he licked his own lips like he was staring at the most delicious delicacy in front of him. Me.

Well, he devoured me. He’s got good taste.

"You should learn how to keep that mouth shut, Cass, or I’ll choke you with my—"

"Uh..." a voice cut him off mid-sentence, stealing both of our attention.

Using the tip of my forefinger, I placed it on his shoulder and pushed Johnny away from me. A tall, cunning, and neat-looking man stood by the door.

He had black-blond hair, square glasses, a comfortable aura, and an awkward shifting gaze between us.

"I'm sorry," he said. "There was nobody at the desk, and the door was open, so I thought that—"

"Who are you?" Johnny spat rudely at him.

He immediately showed the rolled blueprints. "Stefano Sinclair. The architect," he introduced himself, offering a bright smile that pushed his cheekbones up.

He was cute.

"Oh, yes, Architect Sinclair!" I exclaimed, brushing past Johnny and walking over to welcome him. "We spoke on the phone, I’m Cassidy North, sir Johnny Miles’ secretary."

I extended my hand for him, but before he could take it, Johnny pushed it down and offered his gloomy face instead.

"I don’t recall anything about hiring a new architect," Johnny said, putting on a hard face. "I know a friend, a well-known one. Architect Dickson Dickerson. I don’t need an amateur to design my buildings."

I must’ve shown all my teeth from wincing and stood between them when I noticed the offense on Stefano’s face.

Letting out a shaky laugh, I sided with the cute architect.

"Architect Dickerson passed away three weeks ago from a heart attack, sir. There was a funeral, but you couldn’t attend because you were... busy. As usual," I explained, and his expression absorbed understanding. "And Architect Sinclair here was actually one of the greatest in the country."

Johnny studied him from head to toe, as if he came here to be a model instead of designing his castle.

"Remember last week? You asked me to find the best. Here he is," I added, gesturing to the chest of a real man who knew how to dress himself formally.

"It's great to finally meet you, Mr. Miles," Stefano offered his hand.

Johnny hummed, staring at his hand.

I cleared my throat, and only then did he accept it and shake it with a sour face.

"I couldn’t say the same thing. I haven’t heard of a Sinclair before," he bitterly uttered before dropping his hand. "Show me your prints," he told him before looking at me. "Get me breakfast. I want the usual."

I nodded and turned my attention to Stefano. "Would you like some—"

"The boy’s already big, bigger than the two of us," Johnny grumbled, giving Stefano’s huge build another glance as he returned to his table. "He knows how to make himself a drink. Go get what I asked for, and hurry. I’m hungry."

Since when did he act like a real boss? No, no, he wasn’t acting like a boss—he was just being bossy. There’s a huge difference in that.

"Could you stop staring at the man and let him in?" Johnny almost exploded.

"What's wrong with this jerk?" I muttered, rolling my eyes at him before smiling brightly at Stefano. I made my way out of his hellish office.

"Is that d**k jealous?"