Bound By The Billionaire: The Surrogate Princess

Looking up at the tall building, I smoothed my skirt and popped a pill into my mouth to calm my nerves. My heart was hammering so loudly in my chest, I was certain anyone standing nearby could hear it too. “Stay calm. You’ve got this.” I gave myself a quick pep talk. As I stepped into the building, a rough hand grabbed my arm. I turned around, startled, and came face to face with a muscled chest. Looking up, I met the glare of a mean-looking man staring down at me. “What the—” That was my honest reaction. I quickly assessed him from head to toe, trying to figure out who he was. Before I could even ask why I was being manhandled, I was shoved aside. In the process, my already wrinkled skirt—something I hadn’t had time to iron yesterday—became even more creased. Great… now I’ll be criticized for looking like a mess, I thought, my cheeks heating up. Turning to glare at the man, I noticed that the entrance was completely empty. I blamed myself for not paying attention to my surroundings and felt a flush of embarrassment. Then, almost instantly, cars lined up, and men in suits with earpieces poured out, moving quickly, scanning the area. I rolled my eyes at their exaggerated actions but couldn’t help freezing, my breath catching, as I stayed rooted where I was. And then I saw him. The man in front of me was so impossibly striking, it felt difficult to breathe. Every detail seemed perfect—tall, commanding, impossibly beautiful—but there was something untouchable about him. He was like a force I couldn’t reach, yet couldn’t ignore. “Who’s this?” I thought, my mind racing. Suddenly, his eyes landed on mine. They were a shade of icy blue, sharp enough to make a person shiver. I quickly dropped my gaze, a flutter of unease crawling up my spine. Looking down at the floor, I took a steadying breath, trying to calm my racing thoughts. When I dared to lift my head again, he was already inside the building, the men trailing closely behind him like shadows. Panic hit me all over again. I jerked forward, reminding myself of why I was here—my interview. I rushed toward the entrance, silently begging not to be stopped, my heart hammering at the thought of being late. The mean-looking man from before stood there again. That was when I finally noticed the badge on his left pocket: SECURITY, printed boldly. He didn’t spare me so much as a glance or an apology for how roughly he’d handled me. I clenched my jaw and decided to push it aside. I had a job to get, and any reckoning with him could wait. Inside, I approached the receptionist—a picture of meticulous professionalism. Hair perfectly in place, natural makeup enhancing her features, her poise radiated confidence. I felt conspicuously underdressed, my heart sinking at the contrast. “Hello, good morning. I’m here for an interview,” I said to the receptionist, trying to sound composed, though my voice probably wobbled. She didn’t even glance at me. “Your name, please?” she asked, her tone so flat it could have been lifted straight out of one of those cliche receptionist scenes I used to read about back home. I gave her my name. She barely nodded, slid a visitor’s pass across the counter, and pointed me in the direction of my interview. As if I weren’t already nervous enough, I thought, trying not to let my racing heart show. I stepped into the elevator, my eyes dropping to the card the receptionist had given me along with the visitor’s pass. My fingers trembled slightly as I punched in the numbers written on it. Ding! The sound pulled me out of my thoughts. I hurried out of the elevator, turned into the long corridor on the left—just as the receptionist had described—and walked toward the waiting area reserved for interview candidates. Before I could even sit down, a number was handed to me. “241. Number 241.” My heart skipped. I didn’t waste a second. I rushed toward the doors, popping another pill into my mouth. I knew I was taking more than I should, but at that moment, I didn’t care. After smoothing my skirt and checking myself one last time, I stepped into the interview room and slowly scanned the space. I paused, unsure of where to go, waiting for someone to direct me. “Please, have a seat,” one of them said. I moved toward the empty chair across from four people—two men and two women—and sat down nervously. Their sharp, assessing gazes met mine, doing absolutely nothing to calm my already frayed nerves. As they skimmed through my resume, their silence made my nerves tighten even more. My heart thudded loudly in my chest as thoughts raced through my mind. Was I not good enough? I was certain my resume was impressive—so why were they so quiet? “What makes you think you’re qualified to be the personal assistant to the Vice President of Strategic Partnerships?” The woman’s voice cut sharply through my thoughts, startling me. “Do you even understand what the Office of Strategic Partnerships entails?” one of the men added. Their expressions were intimidating, but I straightened my back. I had faced far more frightening situations than this—and survived them. Taking a steady breath, I calmed my nerves, refusing to let my anxiety show on my face. When I spoke, my voice came out firm and confident. “Good day. My name is Elara Moore. My academic background has given me a solid understanding of how businesses are coordinated and maintained. Being a personal assistant goes beyond managing schedules or answering calls—it’s about anticipating needs and handling responsibilities before they become problems. I am highly organized, detail-oriented, and able to work efficiently under pressure, which allows me to maintain high standards in everything I do. I believe these qualities would make me a valuable asset to your team. Also, from my understanding, the Office of Strategic Partnerships focuses on building and maintaining key relationships between this company and external organizations—sometimes even government bodies. I am confident in my ability to meet the challenges that come with this role, and I am not one to shy away from responsibility.” I finished with a polite smile, relieved that my anxiety hadn’t crept into my voice or shaken my confidence. I could instantly see their stern faces, though some eased slightly, perhaps pleased with my confidence. Then, suddenly, the man at the far left corner asked, “Most candidates don’t have this kind of background, and most of your experience isn’t local. What country are you from?” The question threw me completely off guard. I had expected them to notice, but I hadn’t imagined it would matter so much. Words stumbled from my lips, confidence faltering in an instant. I could already sense their earlier impression of me shifting. “That will be all, Miss Elara. Thank you,” one of them said, dismissing me. I walked out of the room, my earlier confidence shattered. Deep down, I knew I hadn’t done enough to secure the position. Passing the security guard—the same one who had manhandled me earlier—I didn’t spare him a glance. Why bother? The job wasn’t mine. I stepped into the sunlight, harsh and unrelenting, feeling it press against my skin. My gaze drifted back to the rundown streets of the slum where I lived—hot, cramped, and unforgiving, every corner a reminder of the life I was trying to leave behind.