The billionaires spouse

I woke up to the sound of my alarm screaming at me for the third time. My hand knocked across the nightstand, searching desperately to silence the annoying buzz. When my fingers finally smacked the snooze button, I sat up with a jolt and my heart nearly stopped. “Seven-forty five?! No, no, no…” My boss hated late arrivals. Hated was too mild a word, he practically radiated disappointment like a storm cloud whenever I walked in even a minute past eight. And if that wasn’t enough pressure, it was also my responsibility to make sure his precious morning coffee was waiting for him the moment he stepped into his office. No coffee? I might as well start drafting my resignation letter. I rushed to the bathroom, brushing my teeth at the same time I tried to tame my hair with my fingers. My reflection in the mirror was a disaster, strands sticking up like I’d wrestled a pillow and lost. My skirt was wrinkled, my blouse had a button missing, why today, of all days?, and I couldn’t find my second heel. I hopped around my bedroom like a deranged flamingo, searching for it under the bed. “This is ridiculous,” I muttered, pulling the shoe free from a pile of clothes. In less than five minutes, I managed to throw myself together into something that looked halfway professional, or at least professional enough to convince strangers on the street I worked in an office. My cheeks flushed pink from all the rushing, and I could already feel sweat forming on my forehead. Coffee. I still needed coffee. Not for me, though God knew I could use some, but for him. The man who could make board members quake with a single glance, who could turn an entire meeting room into silence with one word. The man with those piercing greenish hazel eyes that seemed to see right through you, as if he knew every secret you’d ever kept. But no, this morning wasn’t about him. This morning was about me not getting fired. I grabbed my bag and bolted out of my apartment, practically flying down the stairs two steps at a time. The corner café was just two blocks away. My lungs burned as I ran, my shoes clicking loudly against the pavement, my bag bouncing against my hip. I muttered apologies as I nearly collided with an old woman carrying groceries, then dodged a man walking his dog. By the time I reached the café, I was out of breath. My hair had rebelled against me again, strands sticking to my forehead, but I didn’t care. I pushed through the door, ordered his usual black coffee, no sugar, no cream, no anything, just pure bitterness, like his soul, maybe, and waited impatiently as the barista moved at what felt like glacial speed. “Come on, come on, come on,” I whispered under my breath, tapping my foot. Finally, coffee in hand, I darted back outside toward the bus stop. The crowd of daily travelers was already thick, but as I skidded to a halt, the sound of the departing engine met my ears. The bus was gone. I stood there in disbelief, clutching the hot cup like it was my last lifeline. Then, as if the universe wanted to add insult to injury, a gust of wind nearly knocked my hair into my face. “Does my day have to get any worse?” I groaned, dragging out the last word even though I knew it wasn’t grammatically correct. Stress had robbed me of proper English. I wanted to scream. Instead, I stood frozen, weighing my dwindling options: wait for the next bus and definitely be late, or attempt the fifteen-minute walk in my heels, which would surely kill my feet before I even reached the building. Neither choice sounded great. But as always, I reminded myself, this was for survival. I started walking, fast. Each click of my heel against the concrete echoed my thoughts: don’t be late, don’t be late, don’t be late. The city was awake around me, cars honking, vendors shouting, children tugging on their mothers’ sleeves. People seemed so normal, so calm, while my entire career felt like it was teetering on the edge of disaster. And all because I couldn’t drag myself out of bed on time. I wasn’t usually like this. I prided myself on being efficient, organized, the assistant who had everything under control. But some mornings, no matter how much you plan, life just decides to shove you into chaos. I finally spotted the towering glass building where I worked, its windows glinting in the morning sun like eyes watching me. My chest tightened. I picked up my pace, muttering to myself the pep talk I always needed before walking through those revolving doors. “You’re fine, Vondy. You’re smart, you’re capable, you’ve got this. Coffee in hand, smile on face. Easy.” But as I pushed through the crowd and stepped into the lobby, my nerves tangled into knots. Because no matter how much I told myself to stay calm, one fact remained true: my boss didn’t tolerate excuses. And I was about to hand him one, wrapped neatly in my late arrival.