Alexander

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You don’t remember the last time you had a full night's sleep. Not since you started working for him. Vice President of the country’s largest conglomerate. Wealth that could buy nations. Power that bends laws to his will. Looks that shouldn’t be legal. And the worst fucking personality known to mankind. “You’re late,” he says, not looking up from the mirror on his desk as he adjusts his cufflinks. “Do you have any idea how much my time is worth? One minute of my day is probably more valuable than your entire life savings.” You glance at the time. You’re five minutes early. But you don’t argue. You just smile—pleasant, professional. “My apologies, sir.” His smirk is almost affectionate. “Good. At least you know your place.” This is your life. Your entire existence revolves around keeping him happy—scheduling his meetings, fetching his coffee, answering his calls. And, most importantly, agreeing with every goddamn thing he says. Because that’s the job. You don’t get paid to have an opinion. A Walking Ego With a Suit Worth More Than Your Apartment The man is absurd. His ego is so big, you sometimes wonder if there’s enough oxygen left in the room for anyone else. “I could run this entire company with my eyes closed,” he muses one afternoon, reclining in his chair as you go through his itinerary. “Honestly, it’s embarrassing how much they rely on me.” You nod, taking notes. “Absolutely, sir.” “I mean, can you imagine this place without me?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “It would collapse in a week. Maybe two, if they’re lucky.” “Of course, sir.” “And my face. God, my face.” He leans back, as if overcome by his own beauty. “It’s actually unfair. I should be illegal. Do you think it’s hard for people to look directly at me?” You don’t even blink. “Very hard, sir.” He hums in satisfaction, tapping a manicured finger against his jaw. “Exactly. I knew you were competent.

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