The Billionaire's cruel obsession

Rebecca’s POV

“Good morning, sir,” we all chorused in unison.

The man who walked past us didn’t bother to respond.

His tall frame cut through the air like a blade, his stride measured and precise. Even the sound of his shoes against the marble floor carried authority cold, sharp, and final. The room seemed to shrink around him. Heads lowered. Hearts raced.

“Where is the new employee who’s supposed to work as my personal assistant?” His voice was deep and glacial, each syllable carrying the weight of command.

“She… she’s right here, sir,” the manager stammered, pointing at me.

I was still seated. My mistake.

“Stand up when I’m talking to you, you moron!” he thundered. The sound hit me like a slap.

I shot to my feet, trembling. His gaze dragged over me slowly, assessing, mercilessly. The disgust that flashed across his face made my stomach twist.

“And why are you dressed like this? Is this a circus? A clowns’ parade?” he spat, his voice slicing through the air. “Take her to a store anywhere and get her something decent to wear. She’s an eyesore.”

Gasps echoed quietly behind me, but no one dared speak.

He turned on his heel and stormed out, leaving behind a silence so heavy it pressed against my ribs.

My lips trembled. My throat burned. But I refused to cry. Not here. Not in front of them.

Mr. Michael, the manager, stepped forward, his tone gentler. “Don’t let it get to you,” he said softly. “It’s always like this with him. He tests everyone.”

He adjusted his glasses and introduced himself properly. “I’m Michael Anderson but just call me Mr. Michael. The man you just met is Steve Willson, son of Mr. Richard Willson. You’ll be his P.A. You’ll handle official trips, schedules, meetings, and make sure he always has hot black coffee with no sugar every morning. Understood?”

I nodded weakly.

“Good.” He offered a small smile. “You’ll be fine. Amaya will take care of you for now.”

Amaya, a warm-faced woman in her late twenties, took my hand reassuringly. “Come on. Don’t mind him. He’s allergic to being nice,” she joked softly, earning a faint laugh from me.

She gave me a tour of the building, pointing out offices, lounges, and the floor that belonged entirely to Steve Willson, the floor that seemed quieter, colder, almost sacred. Then she took me shopping.

At a boutique called Luxury Wears, I stood frozen as I read the price tags. A single blouse cost more than my rent. Amaya waved off my protests with a grin. “The company’s paying. Perks of being the tyrant’s assistant.”

By the time we returned, I carried three shopping bags full of elegant clothes, beautiful, yes, but they felt heavy in my hands, like a reminder of the humiliation I had to swallow to earn them.

That night, I told Derrick everything.

He frowned. “So he humiliated you in front of everyone? Rebecca, you can’t let a man treat you like that. You should quit.”

“This job could change our lives, Derrick,” I murmured, even as my chest tightened. “I can’t afford to throw it away.”

“Yeah, but at what cost?” he asked quietly. “Your dignity?”

I didn’t answer. I just smiled faintly and looked away. “I’ll manage.”

The next morning, I woke before dawn. The city outside was still half asleep, but I couldn’t risk being late. I dressed in one of the new suits, sleek and professional, tied my hair neatly, and grabbed a cup of black coffee for him from the café near my apartment. My stomach fluttered with nerves, but also something else defiance.

Today, he would see I wasn’t a joke.

Or so I thought.

Running late, I stepped into the executive elevator the private one. A rookie mistake.

“Who in hell’s name entered this elevator with cheap perfume?” The voice came from behind me, low and dangerous.

My blood froze.

Steve Willson.

The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees as he turned his icy gaze on me.

“Answer me!” he snapped. “Or has everyone gone mute?”

Before I could speak, Amaya whispered quickly, “Rebecca, sir. She didn’t know.”

His stare fixed on me like a predator’s.

“You didn’t know?” he repeated with a cruel smile. “You really don’t belong here.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” I managed to whisper. “It won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t.” He leaned closer, his voice so cold it scraped against my nerves. “Stay out of my way, Miss Harris. You already disgust me enough.”

The elevator doors slid open, freeing me from the suffocating space. I followed him silently to his office and placed the coffee on his desk, hands shaking.

He lifted the cup, took a sip and slammed it down so hard that coffee splashed across the desk and onto my arm. The hot liquid burned my skin. I gasped, but he didn’t even glance at me.

“What the hell is this?” he barked. “Didn’t anyone teach you how to make coffee properly?”

“I…I bought it from”

“Don’t waste my time with excuses,” he cut in sharply. “Clean this mess up and get out of my sight.”

I bit back the pain in my arm and cleaned the desk quietly, every movement mechanical. My throat tightened, but I refused to break. Not in front of him.

When I finally stepped out of his office, my heart was pounding so hard it hurt. My reflection in the glass wall stared back at me small, shaken, and angry.

That was the moment I realized the truth.

Steve Willson wasn’t just arrogant.

He was cruel, calculating, and utterly untouchable.

A tyrant in a million dollar suit.

And I was trapped working under him.