The Billionaire’s Assistant

The Victorian retreat

I used to see the world in black and white, dividing emotions and people into distinct categories. Good and evil, love and hate, care and disregard were all I knew. Anthony was my definition of a fearsome and unpleasant boss, someone to be dreaded and avoided. He seemed like a monster in human form, trampling over others on his way to success.

However, these recent weeks spent working closely with Anthony have shaken my beliefs, forcing me to question my rigid perspective. Is there truly a clear boundary between these emotions? Anthony's actions have blurred those lines for me. He's been there every morning to pick me up for work, insisting that taking the bus would lead to tardiness. Our daily lunches have become a routine, during which he efficiently manages his schedules. Despite my unease, I've come to appreciate his consideration, sparing me from cafeteria lunches.

Even more surprising, we hit the gym together on weekends, as he claims he's sculpting both my body and mind. From starting with 5kg dumbbells, I've progressed to lifting 30kg weights under his guidance. Our weekends are filled with conferences, leadership classes, and life coaching forums that he's arranged for us. It's as if he's pushing me to grow in more ways than one.

Anthony's jam-packed schedule surprisingly spared me from the greasy grind of McDonald's, where one day's overtime pay matched a whole week's wages there. The idea that he might be orchestrating this to pull me deeper into McCarthy Enterprise had crossed my mind, but I brushed it aside, unable to believe he cared that much. It simply fit his modus operandi of controlling every facet of his life.

Two weeks following my encounter with Klaus, a tense showdown occurred in the hallway. I'd managed to sidestep him effectively for a while, given his lack of access to the executive floors. Plus, my after-hours commute was now in Anthony's convoy, including an impromptu Chinese lesson. With China as our crucial partner, it was unthinkable for Anthony’s assistant to remain linguistically oblivious, lest I appear lost during important meetings. Klaus' patience was wearing thin; he'd attempted a lunchtime approach several times, but I'd mastered the art of evasion. Eventually, I surrendered the pleasure of devouring perfectly baked blueberry muffins in the cafeteria, fully aware that Klaus was poised to spoil my appetite.

The allure and magnetism I once felt for Klaus had completely dissipated, shattering the pristine glass case my mind had constructed around him. His aura seemed utterly commonplace now, devoid of any mystique in his smile or his scent. His mere presence in the building became an assault on my sanity, a constant struggle to quell the surging fury whenever he drew near.

As suspicions swirled, Anthony's involvement became apparent when a memo surfaced about Klaus's imminent transfer to Senegal. This decision followed an altercation captured on the security cameras, which Anthony had keenly observed. Klaus had seized my wrist with a grip meant to compel an unwanted conversation. In my effort to break free, his wristwatch scratched my skin. The transfer idea seemed to crystallize after Anthony noticed the bandaged hand and my reluctance to divulge the incident, prompting him to delve into the video footage.

Just before the transfer became official, Klaus sent me an apologetic note. Whispers spread that it was essentially a plea to reduce his punishment from the disciplinary committee, a strategy that worked as he managed to evade dismissal. Instead, he secured a transfer to a smaller branch in Senegal, a result that raised eyebrows and fueled speculation.

A glimmer of hope had infiltrated my life over the past week, transforming my daily existence. Anthony's tirades had subsided, replaced by a newfound calm. I was now treated to a daily chauffeured ride to work, complimentary lunches, and even a gym membership. The perks extended to attending various classes and seminars, a prospect that would prove invaluable when I resumed my studies in the fall. The pay slip I received was a revelation - the gym sessions and seminars had translated into overtime pay, inflating my earnings substantially.

For the first time in a while, I was ahead on rent, my debt had diminished by 40%, and the relentless calls from collectors no longer compelled me to silence my phone with a "do not disturb" setting. I could even afford to send a modest sum of money to my mother back in Nigeria, a gesture that brought immense satisfaction.

One evening, the alluring aroma of freshly baked cookies not only roused me from my nap but lured me out of my room to investigate Jane's activities. As expected, the smart television was tuned to YouTube, with Jane meticulously following recipe videos. The remote buttons were coated with sticky dough, a residue from her fingers that alternated between kneading and pausing tutorials. My efforts to switch to a news channel for updates on Nigeria's situation had been abandoned; there simply wasn't enough time to cleanse my hands as I hurried out, skillfully avoiding the dough-covered remote control.

"What was wrong with the other cookie recipes you've collected?" I inquired, observing Jane's apron, a mishmash of flour and butter stains. The thought of subjecting oneself to this ordeal seemed perplexing to me, though I kept my comment internal. Knowing that baking was Jane's passion, I consistently aimed to be supportive.

"This recipe was rated as the best cookie online," Jane responded, her determination evident as she persisted in her quest for the perfect texture and shape for her cookies.

With the clock ticking down to 5 pm, I found myself donned in a striking new sportswear ensemble I had ordered from an online boutique. The sports bra was a fusion of burnt orange and ash-colored stripes running along its sides, offering unwavering support to my ample bosom and granting me the freedom to engage in any athletic pursuit I desired. Nestling my feet were a pair of sneakers, my very first from a renowned designer brand. Unlike the counterfeit ones I had once acquired from Nigeria's okirika market, these shoes bore an impeccable logo and spelling. Jane cast a knowing smile at my prized possession – my shoes. She sensed that they were my inaugural authentic pair, evident from the cautious way I shielded them from the disorderly kitchen ambiance, awash with flour and grease.

"Is there a job opening at your office? I'm tempted to apply," Jane quipped playfully.

"Cut it out with the jokes," I retorted.

"You've got no shortage of cash," I chimed in.

"Who wouldn't want to be in a company with all these perks? Your boss chauffeurs you in the morning and back home at night. You're handed free gym memberships and an extra clothing allowance for every event you attend..." Jane continued, prodding me to truly appreciate the blessings that McCarthy Enterprise had bestowed upon me.

While Jane persistently painted a picture of my abundant blessings, I began to truly recognize them. The perks bestowed upon me seemed as if they had been custom-tailored exclusively for my benefit. Yet, I couldn't shake the peculiar notion that I was the sole recipient of such special treatment within the office, and for reasons I couldn't fathom.

In the preceding week, on two distinct occasions during meetings, I detected Anthony's gaze fixed upon me. Each time, his eyes darted away the instant our gazes met. My initial assumption was that he merely aimed to ensure I remained fully engaged, but what if there was more to his lingering gaze?

The McCarthy enterprise had transformed into something unexpectedly enjoyable. As I delved deeper, a surprising camaraderie developed with the staff, leading to invites for intimate gatherings like baby showers and birthday parties. But today was unlike any other day - a quarterly sporting retreat was in full swing in the picturesque setting of Victoria. A three-day extravaganza, meticulously organized by the company, aimed not only to ignite a passion for fitness but also to combat the obesity plaguing the workplace. This transformative ritual had been necessitated by a scathing online exposé that had revealed the alarming statistic of over 30% of the company's staff being overweight or obese.

Anticipation crackled in the air as the retreat's arrival on Friday loomed, promising an extended weekend of adventure and bonding. The journey would see us traverse through a whirlwind of activities, culminating in our return to Vancouver on Monday. A little bird had whispered to me about the retreat's reputation for being a truly unforgettable experience, becoming the stuff of legends among my female colleagues. More than just a chance to break a sweat, it seemed that this retreat had its discreet allure. Rumor had it that it was the perfect playground for casual affairs, an oasis of romantic intrigue unburdened by the shackles of professional decorum or public relations scrutiny.

A sudden thought jolted me. Did Anthony, the driving force behind the retreat and its extravagant expenses, realize that this corporate venture he diligently financed was double-dipping as a clandestine rendezvous for co-workers? A mixture of curiosity and incredulity churned within me.

As the clock struck 5:10 pm, there he was—Anthony, stationed outside my building. Without wasting a second, I grabbed my trusty little blue bag, a humble companion hardly exceeding 5 kilograms. It was a sporting retreat after all; how much attire could one conceivably need? Packed within were my essentials: toiletries, nightwear, and a handful of sporty outfits to allow for variety. The notion of wearing the same outfit daily didn't faze me—after all, a little sweat wasn't to be feared. I'd envisioned the retreat as a whirlwind of physical challenges intertwined with team-building activities and intense meditative moments. But my expectations were about to be unceremoniously shattered.