A Billionaire's twist of Seduction

He pulled the trigger and shot himself right in his head! The sound from the gunshot thundered through into my soul, creating within me, a scar that would never heal.

"I'm so sorry, my life is in so much mess. I don't need to live anymore" My father had said with tears dripping off his single eye like a melting ice right before pulling the trigger against his own self.

Shivers went through my spine. My heartbeat raced like a steroid induced horse in a polo game.

Several questions befogged my tender mind. I was lost in my own darkness!

It didn't take up to a nanosecond before my screams burst out in great anguish. "Daddyyy!" I had prolonged the word.

"Call the ambulance right away, Lari." my mother yelled. "Hello please could you come down to 5th avenue. there's an emergency."

"please come with an ambulance" I quickly added as I hung up on the 911 official that had received my call.

My Dad had suffered what the Doctors described as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder(PTSD).

Anxiety and Depression were the intruders that took residence in his mind after he lost his two legs in an ambush that occurred in one of the Middle Eastern Countries while Serving in the US Army.

"Baby bear, I really enjoy serving this country!" He had told me countless times. He fondly called me "baby bear" which instigated a feeling of endearment in me.

He had also lost many close friends on that terrible night of their ambush. He was one of the only two survivors that night.

Although losing his two legs and an eye didn't feel so much like winning to Him.

An episode of rage was what always followed his depressive sessions. It was a familiar episode of rage again. except that, this time, he shot himself in front of us.

The bullet had defied the hindrance probably intended by his skull wall, leaving him in a state of eternal silence. His death!

"Daddy please wake up" Jordan had groaned repeatedly as he crashed down at the foot of my Dad.

"The police are here Jordan, come over here" my mum said tearfully, still confused about what had happened.

After some brief examination, a man in a white lab coat stood up and faced us as he said in a low tone "I'm sorry, but he couldn't make it!"

those words pierced through my soul. I could feel that a part of me had died that day!

Being a veteran of the United States Army meant that the states would handle his funeral. and yes, it was a colourful and elegant ceremony with uniformed men in attendance, of which a handful of them were familiar faces.

"It's all gonna be alright Lira" Uncle Mike warmly said as his militarily hard yet soft hand landed on my tender shoulders.

Uncle Mike and My Dad had been friends since their commissioning into the Army, which had taken place on the same day.

Despite serving in different infantry divisions, their friendship had survived.

All my efforts to hold back my tears as I saw my father's corpse slowly embrace the claws of the deep pit proved entirely futile.

The tears flowed freely like water gushing through a broken Dam. All that lingered within my mind was the energy-draining thoughts that I'd never see My Papa again.

"You killed him Lira, You killed your father You slotty bitch"

my mother yelled violently as we arrived home

"I didn't mum, We had just buried Dad and you're already on drugs, really mum?"

I responded as I walked out on her, concealing my frustrations.

She fondly acted violently and insanely whenever she was under the influence of hard drugs.

My Mother had been sober for 7 straight months, which had been the longest she had ever gone without heroin or cocaine depending on what she had access to.

She claimed her ordeal had come as a result of the vacuum my late Dad created whenever he went away on military duties for several months.

She had her first taste of Heroin 7 years ago when Her friend Mirabel Gonzeles had given her a shot of it.

Mirabel had been the wife of a former Cartel Boss who was killed in a gun battle 3 years ago.

At least, Those were the stories she gave Jordan, my little brother, and I whenever we wanted an answer for why she did drugs.

Little did I know that my father's death would unleash the most horrible sequence or rather succession of disaster in my mother's pathetic drug chronicles.

"I can't breath Lira. My heart" my mum said in a weak tone, placing her hands on her chest as she suddenly went silent.

By this time, I was already used to Dialing 911. "Please there's an emergency here at 5th Avenue. It's medical. Thanks!" I hung up the phone as I anticipated the arrival of an ambulance.

I watched in despair as they wheeled my unconscious mother into the ambulance and drove off.

After being admitted twice for drug overdose within 6 months, she would soon find herself partially paralysed by a stroke.

Well, it didn't take long before my new Reality hit me. I now have to take on the masculine role of being a breadwinner and carer for my stroke-ridden mother and an 11yr old brother.

The task of managing my mother's health could be fairly described as gruesome. It was indeed a task in itself.

Mother is barely 39 years old, and Jordan's 12th birthday was in 3 weeks.

The survival pension funds, which some fondly called The Death pension, didn't chunk in enough cash to run our entire family of three.

It wasn't long before it dawned on me that I needed to apply for a job. or rather, jobs.

My first attempt was walking into a country-styled vintage mall to apply as a janitor. I had met the owner that day, who I later learned only visited occasionally.

"You can resume from Tomorrow Miss Lira" Mr Greg said as he spoke to me over the counter. Based on the contract, my shift would covers just 12 hours weekly.

"20 dollars could be a lot of money if you put it to good use" Mr Greg shouted as I worked off the door as though he had intensional planned to announce my wage to the world.

I realised that 12 hours a week gave me more time that could still be converted into monetary gains so I dedicate take on more jobs.

What I considered as the real breakthrough was when I was hired as a front desk clerk in a recently opened automobile assembly plant right in the heart of the Manhattan metropolis.

"Your works day are Monday and fridays Mrs Hernandez," those were the concluding statement of the hirer in what seemed to me like an informal job interview.

The alarm rang hard, summoning my consciousness from its wild escapade across the restriction of my immediate environment.

I have to respond by rising up to prepare for work. It is Monday again. The day I had to be a clerk for the prestigious automobile assembly plant.

My office fits itself within the entrance of the narrow walkway that leads to the manager's office. That morning, as I approached my office, I realised something was out of place.

There were more people than usual. I tried to filter the enormous queues of possible reasons that clustered my mind,

as I searched for a possible reason, I felt a warm touch from behind my shoulders.