BLACKMAILED BY THE BILLIONAIRE

Chapter 1: The Devil Wears Armani

The gates of hell might as well have opened at the ungodly hour of 4:30 a.m., when my alarm clock started its daily torture routine. "Oh, come on! Even Satan sleeps in," I groaned, hurling a pillow across the room. No rest for the wicked or, in my case, the wicked's personal assistant. Harry Style, my boss, was a special kind of devil – devilishly handsome, devilishly rich, and just plain devilish in making my life a living hell.

I dragged myself out of bed, catching my reflection in the mirror. "Bella Thompson, you look like a zombie dragged backward through a bush," I muttered. Working for Harry meant maintaining an image of perfection at all hours, while catering to his every whim – whims that were as shallow and frequent as waves lapping at the shore.

The man was a walking ego, a black hole of neediness that sucked in my time, energy, and any semblance of a personal life. As I shuffled to the window, a sardonic laugh escaped me. "Personal assistant to the Devil himself," I mused. "That should've been the headline in the job description: Warning, may cause chronic sleep deprivation, hair loss, and an intense loathing for mankind."

The shower did little to wash away the impending dread of another day at Harry's beck and call. "Today's the day, Bella. Today you're going to stand up to him," I told my reflection, though deep down, I knew I was more likely to sprout wings and fly to work than actually confront him.

"Dressed in my pencil skirt and blouse – the unofficial uniform of the under appreciated – I practiced my assertive face in the mirror. 'If he asks me to fetch his dry cleaning one more time, I'll strangle him with his Armani tie. Yes, you heard me. I'll strangle him with those ridiculously expensive ties,' I muttered to my reflection. 'You're not his mother, Bella. He can fetch his own damn dry cleaning.' It sounded convincing, even empowering. But let's be real – who was I kidding? Knowing my luck, I'd probably end up fetching his dry cleaning before lunchtime

Coffee in hand, I braved the New York morning, stepping into the chaos of honking taxis and bustling pedestrians. Each red light during the cab ride was a moment of contemplation, a brief pause in my daily descent into madness. "You could've been a yoga instructor, Bella. Zen and peaceful. But no, you chose life in the corporate jungle, with King Kong for a boss."

As I stepped out of the cab, the crisp morning air hit me, a stark contrast to the heat brewing in my chest. Here I am, at the beck and call of a man who probably bathes in the tears of his employees, I thought bitterly. Today's to-do list was probably as absurd as ever. "Organize a parade in Harry's honor, perhaps? Or find a way to bottle his 'essence' for mass production. 'Eau de Narcissist', the perfect fragrance for the man who has everything and still wants more.

I sighed, steeling myself for the day ahead. In the world of Harry Style, I was less an assistant and more a warrior, daily entering the battlefield of his towering skyscraper. Maybe, just maybe, today would be the day I'd finally break free. But who was I kidding? Harry Style didn't release his grip so easily.

As I entered Harry's bedroom, the sight that greeted me was a tableau of debauchery that would make Caligula proud. Harry himself, the ringleader of this circus, was sprawled across his king-sized bed like a modern-day Bacchus, flanked by two women whose names I knew he wouldn't remember. Their tangled limbs and disheveled hair spoke volumes of the night's escapades.

Without so much as a glance in my direction, Harry's voice cut through the morning air, sharp and commanding. " Morning routine, get them out," he ordered, his tone as casual as if he were asking me to pass the salt. The arrogance in his voice made my skin crawl, but I masked my disgust with practiced professionalism.

The women, still groggy from their night of indulgence, barely stirred as I approached. "Ladies, it's time to leave," I said, my tone firm yet polite. They muttered protests, but a glare from Harry hastened their exit. It was a routine I had become disturbingly proficient at - the discreet ushering out of Harry's conquests, a silent cleanup of his reckless abandon.