Battling the Billionaire Demon

Bianca... Bianca, you lied to her, you lied to them all. She will never forgive you. It will haunt you! Hahaha... hahahaha!"

"No, please... please, I'm sorry! Mom, please don't believe him! Mom, please don't believe him... Mom!" I screamed, my voice breaking in desperation. My mother just stood there, unmoving, her head bent downward. Her silence was unbearable.

Then slowly, she lifted her head, and my breath hitched. Her eyes were bloodshot, burning with an unrecognizable intensity that sent chills down my spine. The sight was too much. I screamed, my voice filled with sheer terror.

"Noooo!!!" I jolted awake, my chest heaving, heart pounding wildly. Tears stung at the corners of my eyes as I gasped for air. Another nightmare.

The morning sun peeked through the window, casting golden light across the room, but it did little to soothe the lingering dread in my chest. Wiping the tears away, I sat still, my body heavy with the weight of regret and exhaustion. How hard could it be to live a normal life?

I had always dreamed of reaching for greater heights, of becoming someone extraordinary, yet the reality of my existence felt like trudging through quicksand. Each step forward seemed to sink me deeper into an abyss of my own making.

"Bianca!" My mom's voice rang from the kitchen, her tone sharp yet laced with concern. The sound jolted me out of my reverie, pulling me back into the present. The golden hues of the morning sunlight suddenly felt too bright, too hopeful, as if mocking the heaviness I carried within.

"Bianca!" she called again, her voice growing closer, her footsteps echoing softly down the hall.

I sluggishly swung my legs over the side of the bed, my movements mechanical and uncoordinated. My eyes, bloodshot from a sleepless night, burned as though they'd absorbed every tear I refused to shed.

A quick knock came at the door before it swung open, revealing my mom's concerned face.

"Good morning, Mom," I muttered, forcing a weak smile. My voice cracked, betraying the turmoil I tried so hard to conceal.

"I've been calling you. What's wrong? Are you okay?" she asked, stepping into the room, her brows furrowed with worry.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. I didn't hear you. I had my pods in," I lied effortlessly. The truth was buried too deep, tangled in a nightmare I could never dare to share. The secrets of my subconscious were too dark, too twisted, to bring to the light of day.

Her expression softened as she studied me, her maternal instincts clearly sensing the cracks in my facade. "Oh, my dearest, you know you can always talk to me, right? Your face looks pale... is something bothering you?"

The concern in her voice struck a chord deep within me, and for a moment, I felt the walls I'd built around my heart begin to crumble. But no, I couldn't fall apart here. My mother had endured enough for the both of us. I was all she had, and she was all I had. If she needed me to be strong, then strong I would be, no matter how fragile I felt inside.

I forced a chuckle, hoping to mask the lump rising in my throat. "I'm fine, Mom. Really. It's too early for all this worry. What time is it, anyway? I need to get ready for work."

Her expression shifted reluctantly, but she let it go. "That's why I came to wake you up. It's already past eight. You need to get moving."

Her words hit me like a slap to the face. My heart sank as I grabbed my phone and saw the time glaring back at me: 8:19 a.m. I was supposed to be at the office by 8:50.

"Oh, crap," I muttered under my breath, tossing my phone onto the bed and scrambling toward the bathroom.

Showering had always been my sanctuary. The sound of water cascading over me was therapeutic, washing away the noise of the world and grounding me in the present. But today, there was no time for solace. My rushed movements felt foreign, as if I were betraying my own ritual of self-care.

Minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom, hastily dressed and pulling my hair into a quick ponytail. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and fried eggs wafted into the room, a small comfort in the chaos of my morning.

"Bianca, I've made breakfast for you," Mom called from the dining room.

I threw my bag over my shoulder and glanced at my watch. "I'm late, Mom. Just pack it up for me, please. I'll eat at work. Thanks!" I shouted back, my voice strained with urgency.

Mom appeared at the doorway, a small lunch bag in hand. She stepped closer, her warm gaze meeting mine. "Here it is. Have a good day, my love," she said, planting a soft kiss on my forehead.

Her tenderness pierced through my defenses, and I managed a smile, fake, but enough to reassure her. "Thanks, Mom," I whispered before rushing out the door.

As the taxi sped through the bustling streets, I stared blankly out the window. The rhythmic hum of the engine did little to quiet my thoughts. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill over as memories of my secret clawed their way back to the surface. What have I done? The question echoed endlessly in my mind.

I knew I could never tell my mom. She wouldn't understand. She wouldn't forgive me. And the thought of losing her, my anchor, my safe haven, was too much to bear. So, I sat there, silent and suffocating, clutching the weight of my choices as the city blurred past me.

*****

I arrived at the firm, rushing in as calmly as I could manage, hoping to avoid drawing any attention to myself. My heart pounded as I navigated through the hallway, praying fervently that I wouldn't get caught this time. Just when I thought I had successfully made it, a familiar voice rang out behind me, sharp and authoritative.

"Miss Bianca, I need you in my office, now!"

The words sliced through the air, freezing me mid step. My heart sank, and I closed my eyes briefly, as if trying to summon the courage to face what was coming. Caught again.

I hurriedly dropped my belongings in my office and headed to my superior's room. Each step felt like an eternity, the weight of dread making my feet feel heavier. I opened the door and stepped in, immediately greeted by her stern gaze.

"Good morning, Ma'am," I mumbled, my voice barely audible. I already knew I was in trouble. The signs were clear.

Her eyes bore into me. "There's nothing good about this morning, Bianca. What exactly is your problem?" Her words struck like a whip, and I flinched slightly.

"Ma'am, I....um...." I stammered, my mind scrambling for an explanation. But what could I say? How could I tell her that I was crumbling inside? That despite being tasked with helping others navigate their traumas, I was drowning in mine? That every night, nightmares clawed at me, leaving me hollow and incapable of fully functioning?

"Just stop," she interrupted sharply, rising from her seat and removing her glasses. The sight of her rubbing the bridge of her nose told me she was both frustrated and tired of whatever she thought my excuses would be.

"Look," she began, her voice softer but still firm. "I don't know what's going on with you, but it's not funny anymore. The clients you've been handling for the past few months? None of them are showing improvement. Their families are starting to question our competence, and you know how fast reputations can crumble in this field. I can't have that, Bianca."

Her words hit like a brick wall. My throat felt dry, and the edges of my vision blurred as she continued.

"We need to make some changes. So, I'm asking you, kindly, to take a leave of absence. Take a break, get yourself together, and we'll call you back when we think you're ready."

The room felt like it was spinning. Was this really happening? I had worked so hard to earn my place here, and now it was slipping through my fingers like sand. I swallowed hard, trying to steady myself.

"Ma'am, please," I pleaded, my voice shaking. "Just one more chance. I'll prove myself."

She shook her head, her expression unwavering. "No, Bianca. We need you at your best, and right now, you're not. It's not just about you, it's about the clients who trust us. Take this time to figure things out. We'll reach out when we think you're ready to return."

Her words felt final. She shifted from her desk, signaling that the conversation was over. "I have a meeting to attend," she added, walking past me. As she reached the door, she paused briefly to place a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "Take care of yourself, Bianca. We'll see you soon."

And with that, she was gone.

I stood there, staring blankly at the space she'd vacated. Her desk, once intimidating, now looked chaotic, cluttered with piles of client files. My chest ached, the weight of rejection pressing down on me. Was this her way of subtly firing me? The thought stung.

As my eyes scanned the desk, they landed on one of the files. The name on it seemed to leap out at me, and in a moment of impulsive defiance, I grabbed it. My fingers tightened around the folder as I turned and left her office.

If they doubted me, if they truly thought I wasn't capable of doing my job, I was going to prove them wrong. Whosever file this was, they were about to get the best care I could possibly give.

I didn't care what it took. This was my chance to show them all that I wasn't broken, that I was still worth something.