THE ARROGANT RECEPTION

I feel the urge to roll my eyes, but I hold myself back. "I am here for Mr. Damian Almeda. I have an appointment with him." I boringly state my point.


Now that got to growl her gaze at me, taking an awfully long moment to gawk at me through the scaringly lanky eyelashes. What the fuck! Do I look like a ghost or an alien for her to browse me for all that long? She is the one who looks so scary in all these makeups.

"You are the so-called Ellie Marrie?" She rants at last, in a tone that I don't like at all.

Underline the ‘so-called'. We shall revisit that later. For now, Damian is waiting for me, and there is nothing whatsoever worth keeping him waiting for. Not even this bitch. Not even my wrath for her is building with me. "Yes," I mumble.


Another annoying stare! Heck! What is her problem with me here? "The boss doesn't like to be kept waiting. You are fifteen minutes late!" her tone, though! Do we have a beef here? And what the fuck does she know about Damian?

"I'm sorry about that. But..."


"What is your meeting with him all about?"

Pardon? I mean, if he notified her that he was expecting me, I don't think I have to rationalize any of this fucking shit to this pompous bitch, right? What is with her? Is this how it works here?

And the way she gawks at me is so dubious to me. And you know what? I know how to perfectly deal with b*tches like her.

"It is personal, miss! I presume you know what that means, right?" I retort.

She scoffs, "I wouldn't be behind this desk if I didn't, right?"

"Then prove it and let Damian know that I am already here, or should I call him myself?" I challenge this gross bitch!

God! Where did he pick this annoying shitass from?

I grumpily watch as she makes a landline call, which lasts for a second. She cuts off the call, and all I could hear was a freaking yes. She disregards me after that, acting like the peevish a$$ she profoundly is. Not even a glimpse, and I was poised to vent all my seething rage on her when the door next to her desk cracked open, showcasing Damian gleaming like the alluring god that he really is.

My eyes are drawn to the tantalizing smug grin on his lips as he draws near to me in long strides, and my nostrils are engrossed by his sweet scent. The customized three-piece baby blue tuxedo hugs his lean frame perfectly, and his features flawlessly denote the ideal criterion of a compelling charm. My!

"Hi," His voice, as sweetly cold as always, mesmerizes me more, but I manage to pull myself from the state of enchantment as he pulls me for a hug.

Huh! That wasn't expected. Perhaps that elucidates why I am melting as he drapes his sweet arms around my waist? I welcome the hug, bandaging one hand around his neck while the other clasps my handbag. I'm in my two-inch stilettos, but still, I had to stand on my toes.

We pull away. "May I?" He asks, grabbing my handbag, which I resist at first, but upon discerning the dreadful glint in this bitch's furrowed eyeballs, I hand it to him, and she rolls her eyes.

Die, bitch! For all I care! No, but seriously, what is her problem?

"Thank you," I murmur with a broad grin as he takes my handbag in one hand, offering me the other hand to tuck on as he leads me to his office.

I cling to his arm, not shirking to shoot this suffocating bitch behind us a mocking glance. If looks could kill, I would be dead from her murderous glare right now.

Whatever is itching your ass, bitch, deal with it or just freaking die!

We glide into Damian Almeda's glittering, sterile office, the air crackling with an undercurrent of tension and anticipation. My eyes are immediately drawn, almost magnetically, to the trio of portraits adorning the wall. Despite their few numbers, their impact is undeniable. Each portrait captures Damian with an intensity that commands attention—a commanding figure, exuding an aura of dominance and strength.

In every frame, his features are chiseled with precision, and his posture exudes confidence and authority. His eyes, though rendered in paint, seem to follow your every move with an unwavering gaze, piercing through the veneer of formality to reveal the man beneath. Cold, strict, and reserved, the portraits offer no glimpse into the complexities of his character, leaving me with a burning curiosity that refuses to be quelled.

Who is Damian Almeda, truly? A man of such presence and power surely holds sway far beyond the confines of his office walls. Yet, despite his undeniable influence, he remains an enigma—a figure shrouded in mystery, his true motives and intentions hidden behind a mask of indifference.

"Done drooling over my portraits? I am just here, you know. I won't mind you ogling me like you are doing to my pictures. Lost in contemplation, I'm startled by his voice, cutting through the silence like a knife. His words are laced with a playful arrogance, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he addresses me. And then, before I can react, his arms envelop me from behind, pulling me into his embrace with a familiarity that sends a shiver down my spine.

I can feel the warmth of his body against mine, his hands finding their way to my curves with practiced ease. His touch is both possessive and tender, sending a rush of heat coursing through my veins. For a moment, I'm paralyzed by the intensity of the sensation, my mind reeling with conflicting emotions.

And then, with a reluctant sigh, I turn to face him, my gaze meeting his with a mixture of defiance, desire, and curiosity too. Just who are you, Damian Almeda? The question lingers in my mind, unanswered yet lingering heavily. A figure like yours ought to be known all over the nation. Who exactly are you, really?