Page 3 of My Billionaire Boss Crush

However, our decision, whether right or wrong, had affected our daughter even if Summer won’t admit it. Although Tianna and I both share custody of our sixteen years old daughter, my ex-wife has been making excuses upon excuses anytime I broach the subject of Summer visiting her in Los Angeles.

I wouldn’t put it past Tianna to be making those excuses out of whatever selfish reasons she has. And the last thing I’m going to do is tell my daughter that her mother doesn’t want her to visit just yet.

As I finish my coffee, I glance at the clock on the wall… 7:30 AM. The minutes are ticking by, and Summer needs to be at school by 8:00. I push my chair back and make my way upstairs to wake her up. It has become a daily struggle to get her out of bed and into the world.

I knock softly on her bedroom door. "Summer, sweetheart, it's time to get up," I call, my voice laced with the weariness that often accompanies early mornings.

Silence greets my words, punctuated only by the faint sound of her muffled music playing from within. Taking a deep breath, I push the door open and step inside, praying to whatever god exists that she doesn’t snap at me this time for entering her room without permission.

The cream-colored room with pink undertones is dimly lit, with clothes scattered across the floor and an air of disarray that mirrors Summer's current state of mind.

I walk over to her bed and gently shake her shoulder. "Summer, it's time to wake up," I repeat, my voice more insistent this time.

She groans, pulling the covers tighter around her. "I don't want to go to school today," she mutters, her voice laced with sleep and defiance.

I sigh, the weight of responsibility settling on my shoulders. "I understand you're not thrilled about it, but education is important, Summer. You have to go."

If only the people at New York’s Today magazine, who declared me capable of doing the impossible at an interview last week, could see me now struggling to coerce my teenage daughter awake.

Reluctantly, she sits up, her eyes still heavy with sleep. I offer her a small smile, hoping to break through the new barriers she has built around herself today. "Come on, sweetheart. Get dressed. Madam Irene has made breakfast."

As I go back downstairs, I hear Summer shuffling around in her room. A small victory, a sign that she was willing to cooperate, at least for now. I busy myself in the kitchen, serving the simple breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, the aroma of it filling the air and mingling with the quiet anticipation of the morning.

By the time Summer appeared in the kitchen, her long, coffee-colored hair hastily brushed and her eyes still half-closed, I had served breakfast on the small dining table in the kitchen. We hardly ever use the larger, more formal one in the dining area.

She sits down at the table, and we eat in silence. The only sound is the clinking of cutlery against plates. I steal glances at her, trying to catch a glimpse of the little girl I used to know, but she seems distant, lost in her own thoughts. Whatever speech I’ve been rehearsing in my head to get a conversation going between us completely fades away.

As soon as we finish our breakfast, I glance at the clock and bristle at the time… 7:55 AM. Time is fast slipping away, and we need to leave soon. So, I clear my throat, breaking the silence that has settled between us. "Summer, we should go. We don't want to be late."

She nods, wide brown eyes like her mother’s finally meeting mine. "Okay," she replies, her voice barely above a whisper.

I grab the keys to my Range Rover, and together we walk out to the car. The short drive to Summer’s school is filled with an uncomfortable silence, punctuated only by the occasional sigh from Summer. The weight of unspoken words hung heavy in the air.

As we pull up to the school entrance, Summer unbuckles her seatbelt and opens the car door. She turns to me, her expression softening for a brief moment. "Thanks, Dad," she says, her voice filled with a hint of gratitude.

I lean forward and place a gentle kiss on her forehead, hoping she can feel the love and support I have for her. "Anytime, Summer. Have a good day."

With that, she steps out of the car, shouldering her backpack as she makes her way toward the school entrance. I watch her go, a mix of emotions swirling within me. The challenges of single parenthood are never easy, but I am determined to keep trying, to bridge the gap between us and find our way back to each other.

As I drive away, the empty seat beside me a constant reminder of the struggles we faced, I can't help but hope that one day, Summer will find her way back to me too.

All thoughts of my strained relationship with my daughter quickly take a back seat in my mind as soon as I arrive at the massive skyscraper that has the name Graves Construction Company engraved in bold letters at the top of the revolving doors.

I instantly remember the phone call from Gregory Osbourne, a former business partner and an old friend, two days ago. He had called in a favor for his jobless daughter, pleading with me to offer her a job as my personal assistant at the company.

If it hadn’t been for the rumors of his daughter being blacklisted, I would have gladly done him that favor. But after hearing the circumstances surrounding Gregory’s daughter’s termination at work from my head of HR, I became hesitant.

The Osbourne girl had cost her last company two major clients in the country that even I would be stupid to lose if given the opportunity. I didn’t need someone like that in my company, blacklisted or not, but the sly old man had cleverly reminded me that I owed him one, and I am not a man to go back on my word.

Hands tied, I finally agreed to give his daughter a chance, but I didn’t make any promise of not letting her go the moment she made a single mistake. Everyone who works for me knows that I don’t take kindly to errors, and I don’t give second chances.

The world of business is a cutthroat one, and I just hope that Gregory’s daughter has got what it takes to survive here.

Murmurs of greetings fill the air as I head to my private elevator, taking it straight up to the twenty-fifth floor.

I step out of it, and as soon as the redhead seated behind the large marble desk attached to the wall by the entrance of my office catches a glimpse of me, she rushes over to receive my briefcase.

Beside her is a golden-haired, freckled woman with deep blue eyes that remind me of the undulating waters of the ocean, stands with a hesitant smile. I stopped, raising a curious brow at the woman dressed in an immaculately tailored skirt suit that matched her eyes.

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