The CEO's Innocent Secretary

A swirl of exchanging moans blares in the vicinity of the luxurious hotel room in uptown Balinderry. Squeaky covers and the blast of cold air coming from the fancy A/C travel through the halls and goes back atop the bed, where two bodies connect in a lovemaking session filled with heeding ecstasy.

The man’s hands rivet downwards, pinpointing the woman’s g-spot, which is half-covered by her laced ivory panties, now pushed to the side because of his shaft and fingers mangling inside.

“Oh—Fuck! That’s it, Damon… It feels good right there. I think… I’m coming!” the woman moans, and the man hungrily groans. Damon’s not far from climaxing either, so he mopes faster. He pounds into euphoria as he devours her neck with lovely kisses, and eventually, they moan in unison, their bodily fluid mixing together as it drips down the wobbling legs of the one beneath him.

“Haa…” His deep voice heaves when he pulls out, eventually plopping his hardened back on the soft cushion, laying next to the sexy lady with a hazy mind.

Soon after, Damon propped up and lit a cigarette, sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at the floor-to-ceiling window that showed the entirety of Balinderry county, a city filled with buildings and conglomerates looking forward to building a better future. The man had his back turned against the woman he just fucked, inhaling the remaining smoke of his coffin nail.

“Damon… I want you to cuddle with me. No, scratch that. I can still go for another round if you want,” the sultry voice filled the room.

“Shut the fuck up…” he breathily mumbles, but she fails to hear. She crawls towards him, hugging his arm and pulling it closer to ask, “What did you say, mister?” She smiles as she slides her hand to feel his perky abdomen. The six-pack buns he possesses is hard, sweaty, and fairly delicious.

Damon gave her a piercing glare, sneering the words, “I said—Shut the fuck up!”

The room was drawn to silence, and the woman sprawled in the corner with a stupefied gawk.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Oh my gosh, Damon! I thought we had a connection! Are you fucking bipolar—” she rants on and on that Damon’s ears decideto manually blur out her other words.

He stood up without saying anything as she continued to curse. He then took his clothes and put them on, ignoring the frantic woman lashing out beside him. He buttons his white long-sleeved shirt, slides in his tight-fitting slacks, and wears his sophisticated raven coat with gold cufflinks searing its sheat.

Damon faced the mirror and prepped himself to look presentable. His eyes wandered on his perfect face, looking at his reflection, and there was no sign of elation. With a serious gaze, he fixed his hair in the manliest way.

As stoic and arrogant as he is, anyone will fall for his handsome physique. He has blue coral eyes, blonde and luscious hair, buff body that is well-maintained, and clean face bound to lovely cupid lips. Nonetheless, his cold, resting face floats amidst all of these, making him unapproachable to most, if not, all, people.

“Hey, douche! Are you even listening?!”

A pillow flew across the room, hitting the back of his head. His bored furrowed, and his thin patience snapped. “You fucking—Didn’t I just tell you to shut the fuck up?! Stop running your filthy mouth and do something useful for once! I fucking hate women who act like I’ll ever be interested in them. You all are useless creatures created to please men, so stay the fuck away from me from now on,” Damon paused and stepped closer, resting his hands on the side of his hips. “You suck when it comes to sucking me,” he spouts with his signature sharp stare and mocking smirk.

The woman held her mouth in disbelief, yet her eyes were still in obvious wrath.

“So fucking annoying,” Damon lastly uttered, and he finally stormed out of the hotel room, hearing the words, “Damon John Whitlock, you’re a fucking asshole!”

Indeed, women are quick to grapple him, but once they get to know the real Damon, they quickly evade ever meeting him again.

He’s a misogynistic asshole.

A nightmare in disguise.

And most importantly, a walking red flag.

Damon is the human form of heartbreak, so those with fragile personalities shall stay away.

However, not everything about him is that bigoted. Although Damon John Whitlock is often referred to by his employees as Lucifer, he’s still named the youngest billionaire at the tender age of 25. Now, the 30-year-old bachelor is known to the corporate world for the wonderful tech projects he managed to assemble these past few years.

Meanwhile, in the parking lot of that same hotel, two guys with bored countenances sit inside a luxury sports car.

“Ugh, he sure is taking a long ass time fucking Mr. Lyndon’s daughter,” Alvin Smith growled loosely with his head resting on the headboard. He works for Damon as his enthusiastic driver.

The man beside him sighed. “Well, we can’t really blame him. His only way of de-stressing is this type of shit…” he weakly said, feeling tired, but sucking it up. This is Calen Rowley, Damon’s attentive secretary. He’s hardworking, efficient, and hella smart.

“I know, Calen. I’m just saying, but he scheduled a board meeting in 20 minutes. How long is he going to take? Can’t he come a little faster? Damn it! His double life is taking a toll on me. He knows damn well how bad the traffic is in Balinderry! If he gets late and yells at me again, I swear to fucking God, I’ll resign and flip him off…” Alvin rants in an animated manner.

Calen can’t help but let out a thrifty laugh. “You’re just saying that, but you and I both know that you’re a slave to your ten grand paychecks.”

Alvin clicks his tongue. “Shit. I hate that you’re right, but let me have this moment, dude!”

As they talk, Damon’s image strides to the luxurious entrance of the hotel. Since Calen has been working for this evil man for five whole years, he immediately recognizes the lanky man in the distance. “Oh, shit! He’s here.”

The two instantly scrambled. Alvin straightened his stance and fixed his tie while Alvin opened the door to meet their boss outside. He first composed himself and paced across the pavement, straightening his navy blue coat.

He met Damon halfway, but before he could open his mouth, Damon asked in his deep, appealing voice, "Calen, what did they say?”

Calen nervously walked beside him back to the car. “They are on their way, Sir Damon. Mrs. Vanderbilt expressed dismay at the sudden changes, but I can assure you she’ll be there, as well as…”

“As well as who?” Damon’s gaze quickly met Calen’s orbs.

“Chairman Whitlock.”

Damon was taken aback upon hearing the presence of the Chairman, his father, and the former CEO of the company.

“Why? Did you tell him about this?!” the rising tone of his boss made Calen quiver.

“No, Sir. He demanded a seat and wanted to take part in the change.”

“Fuck, I told him I could handle this…” he uttered as they reached the car. Calen opened the back door, and Alvin tipped his head as Damon sat there. The poor driver can sense the tension. Lucifer is not in a good mood.

Calen then opened the door beside Alvin and sat up front, waiting for his orders.

“Drive fast and avoid traffic,” Damon said, resting his head on his hand as he looked outside, watching the brightly lit buildings.

“Yes, Sir.”

As their car passes by 22nd avenue, a girl wearing a hotdog costume passes through his gaze. Although Damon is a serious man, he finds the desperate expression of the poor woman funny that he ends up chuckling.

“So stupid…” he comments, and the car speeds away, not knowing what the future holds for him and this woman. Balinderry is a chaotic county. The high-rise buildings that are signs of the fast-moving economy greatly affect segregation. It’s a place where the poorest of the poor and the top 1% of the wealthy lives. It’s unfair, but that’s life. Nonetheless, amidst the sea of Because amidst the ocean of shambles, is an angel in disguise.

That’s not a figure of speech; that’s literally her name.

The 21-year-old Angela Bluebell stood on the sidewalk, as mentioned, wearing a hotdog costume; a strip of mustard lining the front with her head showing in this small hole, allowing her to breathe and greet the passerby with a meek leer.

With cars driving up ahead, she softy yells, “Hotdogs! Buy yourself some hotdogs…” she jiggled around with an inviting smile, waving a banner 20 feet away from Joel’s hotdog cart. Her giant costume calls for attention, but in this place, attention isn’t the best thing to get.

“Get yourself hotdogs here! It’s an…” she heaves, “Oscar Weiner…” she yells with a proud face.

Just then, two questionable high school kids approached her. The couple had mischievous smiles, seemingly planning something.

They then bolted past the clueless dancing hotdog, pushing her in the process.

“Ahh—“ a pig-like sound came out of her mouth. She fell down the pavement, face first.

“Shut the fuck up, you lame-ass hotdog bitch!” The two laughed and high-fived. Their mission of tormenting the mascot every day until she quits or gets fired isn’t a success yet, but they hope she’ll be gone sooner. There’s no clear reason why they’re doing this but for the mere joy of youthful shenanigans.

They then hopped along their way, but before leaving, they took the banner, kicked it in the middle, and scattered the pieces across the path. Angela waited for a moment, letting the embarrassment pass before slowly standing up. She shook the dirt off her costume with a pout.

'Why do they keep doing that?' she asked herself, feeling defeated.

“Not again…” She stared at the ground and sighed at the sight of the broken banner.

“Angela!”

She flinched and looked back at Joel, the hotdog stand owner. He was walking towards her with obvious rage.

“What the fuck happened to you again, you bonehead?! Why do you always let those kids push you around?! You need to fight back! This is the fourth banner those assholes broke, and you still let them get away! For fuck’s sake, take your job seriously. All you have to do is stand there, wave this thing in your hotdog costume, and not break this shit. Yet, you can’t even do that!”

Angela flashes a forced smile. “Sorry, Joel. But you and I can both say that—those kids are the wurst…”

Joel eyed her with perplexion, finally registering the hint of regret in hiring her.

“You still have time to joke around after what happened?! Fuck you, woman! You’re fired!” he screamed before turning back. "And give back that hotdog costume, you useless bitch. I should’ve had you naked in the middle of the road, and maybe that way, I’ll get something outta ya!” he added, raging as he walked away.

“Joel! Wait!” Angela calls, struggling as she follows the man.