The Billionaire’s Assistant

Let’s play a game

Karen POV

Morning arrived, unwelcome and unforgiving, dragging my eyelids open like reluctant curtains. My brain cowered, unwilling to ask the questions it knew would lead to regrettable answers. A throbbing headache pounded within my skull, as though my brain was trying to escape its own mistakes. I was pretty sure my mind had whispered "feign death," but alas, my body refused the plea.

Miraculously, I found myself clothed in my full ensemble—a token of mercy, it seemed, designed to prevent a complete and utter spiral into the abyss of shame. But who was I kidding? The addition of clothes was a futile attempt to sweep last night's escapades under a rug of normalcy. What possessed me? How did I let myself plunge into the depths of such revelry?

Images flickered in my mind—Yvonne, the vivacious intern, her vibrant laughter painting the night; Mohan, with his enigmatic charm and exotic allure, a data wizard by day and a free spirit by night. Both were seemingly carefree, their responsibilities cast aside for this retreat. They were free from any work this weekend as their bosses were absent for the retreat. As for me, I was foolish enough to dive headfirst into their world of abandon, heedlessly embracing their intoxicating allure.

The “white party” promised to be a memorable affair, but little did I know that my memory would be the first thing to abandon me that night. The alcohol flowed as if budget constraints were but a distant rumor. Yvonne’s stomach couldn't hold its content, and I suspected it wasn't just the seasickness that attributed it to the intense vomit session she had the moment she had gotten to the hotel. The liquor couldn’t stay down anymore.

My naiveté became evident as I sampled an array of spirits—a haphazard selection from champagne to Irish cream, whiskey to the most colorful cocktails. The waiters, with an uncanny knack for timing, announced the “last call” each time I reached the bar, leaving me stranded in a sea of sobering dancers, while Yvonne laughed and clinked glasses with Mohan.

My recollections slipped like sand through my fingers, fragments of laughter and shadows of camaraderie. I leaned heavily against a man, certain he was Mohan, who valiantly guided me to a room. Yet, as the fog cleared, the image of my savior morphed, casting doubt on his identity. Mohan's lean frame did not match the sturdy biceps that supported me. Conflicting memories converged, as I questioned the narrative painted by my intoxicated mind.

The room enveloped me in its captivating beauty, the bed a haven of comfort that embraced me. It was a symphony of aesthetics, a five-star aura interwoven with the comforting familiarity of home. As I glanced around, the echoes of elegance whispered promises of luxury. But amidst the opulence, my gaze sharpened, my eyes tainted with the smudges of mascara still clinging desperately.

Something was amiss—the lack of a bathroom within the confines of this sumptuous space. The idea that the bathroom was situated beyond the threshold of the room was as perplexing as it was inconvenient. How could such a lavish setup lack the most basic convenience? I turned to the window, seeking solace in the cityscape, and that's when the truth revealed itself like a grand revelation—I was perched at the apex of the building, ensconced in the pinnacle of luxury: the hotel penthouse.

"Oh my gosh," I blurted, the words tinged with realization as I recollected Anthony's cryptic remark in the car: "You would be staying with me." In my naivety, I had assumed we'd be in the same hotel, a convenient arrangement for communication, but his intention had been far more intimate.

Panic surged as I struggled to process the implications of this revelation. My distress was only interrupted by a knock on the door, my heart fluttering with a silent prayer for room service. Alas, it was not to be. Anthony strode in, a teacup in hand, his casual entrance further destabilizing my already unsettled senses. The cup found its place on the bedside table, a supposed remedy for the aftermath of the night's indulgences. But hangover? I was barely tipsy—or so I had thought.

He perched himself at the edge of the bed, coaxing me to make room. His gaze bore into mine, penetrating, searching, as though seeking answers to questions he had yet to voice. He leaned closer, his fingers deftly removing an errant thread from my hair, and my heart fluttered as we shared an intimate breath. What was he looking for—remorse, vulnerability, desire? I was frozen, caught in the web of his scrutiny.

His gaze remained steady, his fingers now grazing my chin, drawing me closer. The air between us crackled with unspoken words until he finally spoke: "You clearly don't remember anything from last night." My pupils must have betrayed my confusion, my denial palpable as I shook my head, a mute admission of ignorance. His touch released me, and he continued, "You were drugged last night." A statement that sent a shockwave through my psyche, a reality I had never fathomed.

"Drugged?" I exclaimed, the word hanging between us like an abyss of uncertainty. His reassurances flowed, his touch comforting as he lifted the tea cup toward me. Amid this revelation, my memory cracked open, a treasure trove of recollection that I had locked away—his touch, his kiss, a memory as potent as the lingering taste of the tea he offered.

“Be careful this weekend, some of the parties tend to go a little overboard but I am here to keep you safe” he said in a very reassuring tune, one I never heard on his lips.

"What had I done?" The question echoed through my mind, a blend of wonder and apprehension. Anthony's presence, his words, pulled me from the brink of chaos, his tone transformed into one of earnest reassurance. As he departed, the room resonated with the secrets I had uncovered, the kiss I had shared, and the promise he had made.

The room remained silent, holding the weight of my revelation. Anxiety mingled with excitement, a cocktail of emotions that threatened to overwhelm me. Instinctively, I reached for my lifeline—my friend Jane, the confidante who could help steady my shaken world. The phone dialed, and amid ringing tones, I pondered the weekend that lay ahead—a path intertwined with Anthony.

The afternoon sun cast its golden spell as the golf course beckoned with its promise of camaraderie and friendly competition. Teams congregated, staking their claims on various spots across the rolling landscape, each swing promising the thrill of the game. Nestled atop a serene hill overlooking a tranquil lake, the golf course was a testament to the fusion of nature's splendor and the art of sports.

I lingered within the confines of my room, the morning sun painting hues of pink and gold on the canvas of the sky. As the final call echoed, urging participants to convene at the golf course, I begrudgingly heaved myself out of bed, the weight of my recent escapades clinging like a shroud of shame. The prospect of facing Anthony loomed, igniting a war within me between embarrassment and fascination.

On the verdant expanse of the golf course, a division emerged—executives and supervisors on one side, senior staff and directors on another, and a third for domestic staff, janitors, and handymen. An unspoken hierarchy is embedded within the arrangement. To avoid Anthony's magnetic presence, I opted for the last group, seeking solace in solitude as I grappled with the repercussions of the night before.

I was grappling with the abyss of emotions stirred by my reckless choices and my undeniable attraction toward Anthony. Jane's words resonated in my mind, a bitter pill of truth—our worlds were galaxies apart, and my pursuit of him would only lead to heartache. My job, a stepping stone of success, hung in the balance, threatened by the specter of a scandalous liaison.

Golf was a foreign land to me, a game I had only observed on screens. But there I stood, on the lush green, grass damp beneath my feet, the air alive with the excitement of the unfamiliar. The picturesque scene begged to be captured, and as I reached for my phone to seize the moment, it captured something else entirely—Anthony, standing right behind me.

My attempt at evasion had crumbled, his magnetic presence transcending my futile efforts. He questioned my avoidance, his deep baritone voice sending ripples through my insides.

“Are you hiding from me?” he asked in a deep baritone voice that melted my insides.

“No” Stammering, I denied, but the lump in my throat mirrored the weight of my lies.

His response was a wry smile, his tone carrying a mixture of amusement and determination. "I am certain when you try and avoid someone as much as you can, it should be tagged hiding."

His directive followed, a command veiled in his entrancing voice. "Come with me," he said, and I was caught between the undertow of his presence and my conflicted desires.

“Let’s play a game, if I win you answer all my questions and if you win I would let you keep up with your hiding,” Anthony said.

“But I have no idea how to play golf?” I lamented.

Anthony acknowledged my disadvantage with a grin, his confidence oozing. "That gives me an edge then, brace up, Tobi," he said, We were onto pet names already? I hadn’t realized.

The challenge had been laid down, and our fates intertwined amidst the soft grass and the promise of the game. With my heart racing and intrigue piqued, I prepared to play a game far more complex than golf itself.