The Billionaire's cruel obsession

Rebecca’s POV

I got the job.

Months after that nerve-wracking interview at The Willson Group, after sending out countless applications and watching rejection emails flood my inbox like clockwork, I finally had a real job at Your Fantasy Villa.

For the first time in years, something actually went right.

I should’ve been happy. Proud, even. But life has a way of making you hold your breath before it snatches it right back.

The first week at the hotel was a blur of smiles and exhaustion. Every day felt like walking on glass polished, perfect, and ready to cut if I stepped wrong. The guests were demanding, the hours brutal, and the rules suffocating. But I endured. I always had. Because for once, I didn’t want to run from something; I wanted to stay.

By the end of my first day, my feet throbbed so badly it hurt to even breathe. I needed air space, anything that didn’t smell like expensive perfume or disinfectant.

That’s how I ended up at Harper’s Café.

It was a few blocks away from the hotel, tucked between an old bookstore and a flower shop. The bell above the door chimed softly as I entered, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee hit me like a warm hug.

The place was simply cozy even with wooden tables, dim lights, and soft jazz humming from the speakers. For once, nobody looked at me like I didn’t belong.

I sank into a corner seat by the window, wrapped my hands around a mug of caramel latte, and just breathed.

For the first time all day, I let myself think.

About Mom.

About the nights she’d coughed herself to sleep because we couldn’t afford her medication.

About the mornings I’d skipped breakfast so she could eat.

About how hard she’d smiled through it all like she was afraid to show me how much she was breaking.

And then, one day, she just didn’t wake up.

My throat tightened. I stared into my coffee, watching the steam curl upward until it blurred my reflection.

She’d told me once, “Don’t let the world break you, Becca. Even if it spits you out, you stand back up.”

I was trying, Mom. I really was.

But sometimes, standing up hurts more than falling down.

The bell over the café door jingled again, but I didn’t look up at first. Not until the atmosphere shifted like the air itself had been dragged through ice.

And then I felt it.

That same piercing chill I’d felt at the hotel.

I looked up and there he was.

Steve Robert.

He walked in like he owned the ground under his feet. Which, knowing him, he probably did. Dressed in a black suit, crisp white shirt, no tie casual but commanding. His presence filled the room, swallowing every other sound until even the jazz faded into the background.

His eyes, cold and sharp, scanned the café until they landed on me.

For a split second, he didn’t react. Just stared.

And then, slowly, that stare hardened.

Like recognition was an offense.

He started toward the counter, trailed by one of his suited guards. The barista practically tripped over herself taking his order. The man didn’t even look at her when he spoke. His voice was deep, smooth, but it held no warmth, only authority.

“I said black coffee. No sugar.”

I watched, pretending not to, my stomach twisting tighter with every breath.

Why was he here? Of all places?

I prayed he wouldn’t notice me again. But luck and I had never been on speaking terms.

The barista turned to me, flustered. “Miss, could you please move this tray? The table is reserved”

Before she could finish, he stepped forward and his gaze pinned me like a blade.

“You work at my hotel,” he said coldly. His tone was flat, but the undercurrent of disdain was unmistakable.

Every head in the café turned. My cheeks flamed.

“I…yes, sir,” I stammered, my hands trembling slightly around my mug.

“Then act like it.”

The words cut deeper than they should have. I froze, unsure what I’d done wrong.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes glacial. “I don’t tolerate incompetence from my staff. Especially when they’re lounging around in public while still wearing my company badge.”

I looked down instinctively damn it the silver tag on my shirt still read Your Fantasy Villa. I’d forgotten to take it off after my shift.

“I’m off duty, sir,” I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Off duty doesn’t mean unprofessional,” he said sharply. “You represent my brand wherever you go. Try not to look so desperate next time.”

The café went silent. I could feel every stare, every whisper crawling up my skin.

Something in me cracked not loudly, but quietly, deep inside where pride lived.

I wanted to disappear.

But he didn’t care.

He turned away, collected his coffee, and left just like that. As if I was invisible again.

I sat there, frozen, until the door closed behind him and the air finally thawed.

When I looked down, I realized my fingers had gone white around the mug.

My reflection in the coffee looked smaller than I remembered.

He humiliated me. Publicly. Coldly. Effortlessly.

And yet I couldn’t stop thinking about the way his eyes had lingered for that one heartbeat too long before turning away.

The kind of look that said he’d seen me.

And decided I wasn’t worth remembering.

But I would remember him.

Because from that day on, the cruel billionaire with ice in his eyes stopped being a story whispered in hallways

He became my reality.