The Billionaire's Personal Assistant

“Mama!” Miesa Devane whined, just as the end credits of her favorite cartoon rolled across the screen. “I’ll be late for school if you don’t hurry. It’s Monday, after all.”

“Coming!” her mother, Elyon, called back. “Is it over?”

“Yes,” Miesa replied. “Unfortunately,” she added, almost mournful.

She blew out a breath and stared at the TV. Her favorite show had ended, which meant it was time to leave. They were taking different routes today, as usual. It was never easy—her mother didn’t drive.

Elyon’s fear of being behind the wheel was something that had always baffled Miesa, but after years of getting vague excuses, she had stopped asking.

Some answers, she suspected, were buried in places her mother refused to revisit.

She picked up the remote, ready to turn off the TV, when her all-time favorite Mexican movie flashed onto the screen. Just like that, she sat back down, interest rekindled.

And—as if the universe enjoyed tormenting her—this was the exact moment her dear mother decided they needed to leave. Elyon always had the worst timing. At least, in Miesa’s opinion.

“Mimi… it’s time.” Elyon stepped into the living room—then froze. “What… are you watching?” Her face twisted as though she had swallowed something bitter.

In a way, she had. Her five-year-old daughter was watching a movie meant strictly for adults, a movie even she avoided. She knew she should’ve locked those channels behind a parental code. Procrastination always came back to bite her.

“Fiona,” Miesa answered without looking away from the screen.

Elyon snatched the remote and switched off the TV. Miesa groaned loudly.

“You’re not supposed to watch that,” Elyon scolded. “It’s rated 18.”

“Meaning?” Miesa frowned. “Speak English, Mom.”

Elyon rolled her eyes. “It’s for adults. Not babies like you.”

“So? I like it.” Miesa shrugged, too casually for a child her age.

“No, you don’t, baby.”

“I’m six, Mom,” she said dryly. “It’s not like I think about it every time. It’s just a movie I enjoy.” She rolled her eyes heavenward, a gesture she had perfected far too early.

“How old are you again?” Elyon arched a brow, fighting a laugh. The child was only five, but she talked like someone well into their twenties. She definitely gets that from him, Elyon thought—the man she’ll never know.

Miesa stared at her mother, then shook her head. “Let’s go.” She grabbed her bag and lunch box and marched toward the door with the resigned dignity of someone twice her age.

Once everything was turned off and the door locked, they walked down the driveway and got into the taxi waiting at the curb. The cab pulled away, and Elyon finally let herself breathe.

She watched houses blur past—their quiet suburban neighborhood slipping behind them as the car headed toward Miesa’s school. It was about a mile and a half from Elyon’s workplace, but this was their routine, and Elyon had long made peace with it.

Whether her daughter felt the same was another matter entirely. Miesa’s mind worked in ways Elyon didn’t always understand.

“By the way, baby… you’re not six yet,” Elyon said with a cheeky smile. “You’re five.”

Miesa lifted her chin. “I’m counting down the days. Too bad… Daddy won’t be attending again.” Her voice wavered. “I miss Grandpa.”

“Me too, baby,” Elyon murmured. “A lot.”

Silence settled for a while, broken only by the hum of the engine. Then—

“Is my daddy really dead, Mom?” Miesa looked up at her, eyes narrowed in suspicion far beyond her years. “Or he’s alive and you don’t want me to know him.”

Elyon’s heart clenched. “Um… yes, of course, baby. He’s dead. He died before you were born. Why are you asking again?” She kept her voice steady, though lying to her daughter always left a bitter taste behind.

She hated these conversations, dreaded them. But no matter how hard she prayed the topic would disappear, it always resurfaced—persistent as truth itself.

Miesa shrugged lightly. “So why does Cesari Sandoval look a lot like me?” she asked, innocent but sharp. “I’ve just been wondering.” She stared down at her small hands. “Not that I’m hoping it’s him or anything.”

Her words hung between them, heavy as a stone dropped into still water—rippling through all the secrets Elyon fought so hard to keep buried.

Elyon sighed, the sound soft but weighted. “It’s not him. Definitely not. What gave you that impression?”

“People talk,” Miesa replied simply, though her eyes revealed a deeper curiosity—one Elyon had learned could not be easily dismissed.

“It’s as Grandpa said… God created two people alike. I’m sure there’s someone out there who looks like me. Remember when we found Aunt Evie’s doppelganger?” Elyon offered the explanation gently.

She hoped—quietly, desperately—that her daughter would accept it this time. But Miesa was a child with a mind that worked in mysterious, unpredictable ways. Elyon often felt like she was tiptoeing through a maze built by her daughter’s intuition.

“Somehow, I don’t believe that anymore,” Miesa murmured, giving a half shrug. “But if you say so.”

“Don’t think too much about it, sweetheart,” Elyon urged, relieved that—for now—Miesa was letting it go. Moments like these always reminded her how fragile her lies were. “Remember, you have a class debate today. Did you memorize your points?”

“Yes,” Miesa muttered. She hesitated, then added quietly but firmly, “But just so you know… if I find out you lied to me and I actually have a dad… I’ll never forgive you, Mom.” The words landed like tiny daggers—sharp, painful, and too close to a truth Elyon wasn’t ready to confront.

Cesari Islan Sandoval was considered the richest man in Meredor—and the third richest in the world—worth more billions than most people could count. People referred to him as a god, though those who truly observed him knew better.

He wasn’t divine; he was simply a man touched by relentless ambition and a kind of luck that bordered on myth.

His empire, built from nothing, spanned oil and gas, automobiles, mining, a global chain of luxury hotels, a shoe brand called Suenos, and the renowned Islan Sandoval Foundation for the poor, the homeless, and the disabled.

And yet, for all his visibility, no one truly knew the man. It was as if he had erupted onto Meredor’s business scene overnight, a storm that swept away every competitor before anyone could blink.

Cesar used women the same way he used everything else he didn’t like—briefly and without attachment. But once, years ago, he’d met a woman who had been different. Not that he remembered her name; even if his life depended on it, the memory stayed blurred.

They had both been drunk—two strangers sharing heat more than words. When he woke the next morning, his Cinderella had vanished without a trace. Sometimes he wondered if he’d imagined her altogether.

Apart from being a billionaire playboy, Cesari was also an actor and film producer. He had starred in numerous movies, often cast as the villain. But in his latest project—one he produced and directed—he had played the hero in love with the bad man’s daughter.

It was a role that made women swoon even more than usual, as if they needed another reason.

Cesari was every woman’s dream: black, shoulder-length curls; electric-blue eyes; and a face sculpted like divine mischief. He was blessed—unfairly so.

He had slept with countless women, he was sure. But never with his feisty personal assistant, Elyon Devane. She was the one woman who refused to bend to his charm, constantly putting him in his place whenever he acted out.

And yet… there had been that one moment, that one stolen kiss. He’d taken her by surprise, and the memory of it still lingered like a forbidden taste he craved again.

Elyon Devane, twenty-four, single mother, and personal assistant at Sandoval Corporation—she never saw herself as Cesari’s type. She was beautiful in her own right—brown eyes, rich brown hair, standing at 5'8"—but in her mind, she was nothing like the glamorous models who hovered around him like moths desperate for the warmth of a flame.

To Elyon, the idea of Cesari wanting someone like her bordered on absurdity.

Yet, some small part of her—hidden beneath responsibility and exhaustion—knew that stolen kiss had changed something. In him. And in her.