Love Game With The Cold-hearted CEO

~Alejandro's POV~

I reached for the hand dryer, its whirring filling the room as I remained seated at my dressing table. The door swung open with a force that could only belong to one person – my mother.

"Alejandro!" Her voice echoed through the room, and I couldn't help but roll my eyes at her, my disdain evident even in the reflection staring back at me in the mirror.

"Should I interpret that as a good morning?" Her voice was laced with tentative hope, but I responded with icy indifference.

"If you so desire," I retorted, my tone as cold as the winter wind. She sighed, taking the hair dryer from my hand to help dry my hair, but I shoved her away, causing the hair dryer to clatter to the floor.

"Are you ready for work already?" Her concern felt like an intrusion, and I brushed her off, adjusting my tie with a sharp jerk.

"Go get your eyes checked if you're suffering from vision problems," I snapped, my words like ice daggers.

"Come on, Alejandro! I was just trying to be a caring mother," she protested, hurt evident in her voice.

"Being a caring mother doesn't involve asking pointless questions," I countered, my frustration simmering beneath the surface.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and I remained silent, the weight of my resentment hanging heavy in the air.

"Are you feeling better now?" Her voice softened, but I responded with a dismissive grunt, my gaze fixed on the briefcase lying on the bed.

"Breakfast is ready, son," she announced, her hand resting on my shoulder as we exited my room.

"Lead the way," I muttered, and she frowned, her disappointment palpable.

"You're being too harsh, Alejandro. A little politeness wouldn't hurt, especially to your mother," she chided, and I reached out to touch her hand, a rare display of remorse.

"I apologize if I seemed rude, Mother. Please, lead the way," I amended, the words tasting foreign on my tongue. She smiled, planting a gentle kiss on my cheek before guiding me towards the dining area.

And so, the mundane rhythm of my life continued – dull, monotonous, and devoid of joy. Sometimes, I question the purpose of my existence, trapped in a cycle of emptiness and despair.

Living feels meaningless when there's nothing to bring solace, no reason to smile. My life is a tangled mess, a labyrinth of pain and fear, with my mother serving as the sole anchor preventing me from succumbing to the darkness that threatens to consume me.

To anyone observing, I must appear as a walking corpse, devoid of vitality or purpose. I long for a simpler life, free from the burdens of my past, where happiness is not just a fleeting illusion but a tangible reality. But for now, I am trapped in the suffocating grip of my own anguish, yearning for a glimmer of hope to light my way out of the darkness.

Mum pulled out a chair for me at the dinette, her smile unwavering as the maids served my meal with practiced efficiency. I gripped my cutlery, ready to delve into my breakfast, but her persistent grin grated on my nerves.

"Could you please stop smiling, Mother?" My tone was sharp, cutting through the air like a knife. She faltered, her expression softening with hurt.

"Impossible, Alejandro. Just seeing you is enough to brighten my day," she murmured, pouring me a glass of water with trembling hands.

"I suppose there's no point in eating, then," I muttered, dropping my cutlery with a clatter. Her frown deepened, concern etched into every line of her face.

"What's troubling you, Alejandro?" Her voice was laced with worry, a familiar refrain in our interactions.

That's Mum for you – endlessly protective, fretting over every little detail, regardless of its significance. And when the weight of her worries becomes too much to bear, she resorts to her tried-and-true method: tears.

She cries more easily than a newborn babe, her emotions pouring forth like a torrential downpour. It's both endearing and exasperating, a constant reminder of her boundless love and concern for me, even when I push her away with my coldness and indifference.

But beneath her tears lies a strength that belies her fragile appearance – a resilience born of years spent weathering life's storms, a determination to shield me from harm at any cost.

And though I may never fully understand her unwavering devotion, I am grateful for it nonetheless. For in her tears, I find solace, a fleeting glimpse of warmth in the icy caverns of my heart.

"Alejandro!" Her voice carried a note of concern, her expression now solemn.

"How do you expect me to eat comfortably when you're beaming at me like an alien?" My frustration spilled over, my words sharp and cutting. Mum gasped in disbelief at my audacity.

"Did you really just say that to me, Alejandro?" Her voice trembled with hurt, her eyes wide with shock.

"Yes, I did. And if you don't want me to go to work on an empty stomach, you need to wipe that smile off your face and keep it to yourself," I insisted, my resolve unyielding despite her obvious distress.

Though her smile vanished, replaced by a facade of solemnity, I could still sense the lingering disappointment in her gaze. It seemed that no matter how hard I tried to convey my feelings, they always fell short of her expectations.

They just don't understand – when I'm forced into situations I'd rather avoid, my anger simmers beneath the surface, threatening to boil over at any moment. If I had refused breakfast altogether, she would have inundated the room with her tears, turning our home into a veritable river of emotion.

"Alejandro, you're growing colder by the minute. I'm all you have, and you're all I have," Mum pleaded, her voice tinged with desperation. I remained silent, unwilling to engage in yet another round of emotional turmoil.

"Ever since your father passed away, you..." she began, but I cut her off abruptly.

Here we go again – another trip down memory lane, another flood of tears. Is this how women always behave, drowning in their own sorrow?

"Don't go there, Mum. Fine, I'll eat, but let's not dwell on the past," I interjected, picking up my cutlery with a sense of resignation. She smiled in response, her forgiveness as swift as her tears had been moments before.

Good grief! Didn't I just tell her to stop smiling at me? Mothers can be quite something else, indeed.

Thoughts of Dad are like a dark abyss I dare not delve into. There's nothing worth reminiscing about – my life is a tapestry woven with threads of despair and regret, each memory more haunting than the last. And worst of all, there's no one to share this burden with.

I mechanically spoon lettuce into my mouth, the taste bland and unappealing. "Pass me the sauce," I mutter, my request met with a flurry of movement. Mum and a maid reach for it simultaneously, but in their haste, the maid knocks over a glass of water, drenching me in its icy cascade.

"What the hell!" My anger ignites like a flame, fury blazing in my eyes as I rise from my seat.

"You oaf!" Mum's voice cuts through the air, her frustration palpable. The maid trembles under her gaze, already on the verge of tears.

I stare down at my soaked clothes, disgust twisting my features. With a voice as cold as ice, I address Mum with a steely resolve.

"I don't want to see her anywhere near this house again – not even her shadow," I declare, my words dripping with venom as I storm out of the dinette.

"Guards!" Mum's voice echoes behind me, filled with fury. "Take her to the storeroom. I'll personally see to it that she's punished for her incompetence. How dare she spill water on my precious son! You miserable dunce!" Her rage follows me like a shadow as I retreat to my room, desperate to rid myself of the offending garments.

The elevator ride was a blur, the guards trailing behind me like silent sentinels. I'm already late for work, thanks to Mum and her incompetent staff. They'll have to sort out their mess without me – I have more important matters to attend to.