Page 2 of Cinderella's Fling with the Off-Limits Billionaire

He reached for the glass of wine without looking and when his fingers brushed the stem, they missed, knocking it over and onto the thick, cream carpet.

He swore, the spreading red stain a perfect metaphor for the mess of his life. He stared at it for several seconds, knowing he should do something to clean it up. He hadn’t been raised to disrespect property. It didn’t matter how many billions he had to his name, his mother—or whatever she was—would never have let him leave a mark like that.

Only, he was so angry with her.

So angry with her decisions.

So angry with the secret she’d kept from him, the lie she’d told every day she’d let him call her mama. He was just so angry in general.

He ignored the wine, but recognized the gnawing feeling in his stomach was more than just churning rage. He stabbed a finger against the phone on one of the occasional tables. It connected him to the VIP Concierge straight away.

“Signore, how may I help you this evening?” A male voice came down the line.

“I need dinner,” he clipped.

“Of course, sir. Anything in particular?”

Great question. What did he feel like?

Nothing, if he were honest. But he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. He’d pushed food around his plate at the wedding, then had a candy bar sometime the day later. On cue, his stomach gave a growl.

“Burger. Fries. Pizza. Lobster. Spring Rolls.” Suddenly, how much he hadn’t eaten in the past few days caught up with him. “Some kind of cake. And another bottle of scotch.”

“Of course, sir. Right away.”

Leandro hung up the phone and dropped his head forward, staring at his bare feet.

The world seemed to tilt beneath him, but not from the alcohol he’d rapidly consumed. No, that’s just how it was now. He was untethered, adrift, a lost soul, with no idea where he belonged, nor with whom, and he truly thought that would never change.

It was just about the least professional thing Skye could do but she stifled a yawn outside the doors to the Presidential Penthouse Suite, pressing the back of her palm to her soft pink lips and blinking quickly to remove the exhaustion from her eyes. She couldn’t believe she’d been roped into doing a double shift again, her fourth in a row. She’d wanted to get home on time tonight, to check on Harper, who’d seemed grizzly that morning—most unusual for her daughter. She pushed aside the maternal worry about her little girl, hoping she wasn’t getting sick. Skye hated it when Harper was sick. She hated it because the little almost-two-year old was ordinarily such a bundle of energy, so seeing her wan and pathetic and needing to sleep so much pulled at all Skye’s heartstrings. But it was even worse because she couldn’t just be with her. All Skye wanted to do when Harper was sick or tired was to cancel work, her whole life, and bundle Harper up in blankets and cuddles, holding her dear little body tight. To simply listen to her sweet, soft breaths, inhaling the scent of her hair, feel her rose-petal soft limbs. Instead, more often than not, she had to hand the little girl over to her mother Irena and run out the door to work.

Because, bills.

Because, responsibility.

Because, she was alone, and no one else could help her with the mess her life had become.

But alone was better—so much better—than being in a miserable relationship with someone like Harper’s dad. She shuddered just to think of Jay and how long she’d spent under his thumb, clinging to the stupid, naïve idea that she could change him.

That he’d change.

That he’d love her enough to start treating her right.

Another yawn threatened; she bit it back, returned her hands to the elegant handles of the room service trolley and continued to push it forward. At the entrance to the suite, she pressed the doorbell, and waited.

When she’d first starting working at the hotel, she’d found this kind of thing almost paralyzingly awful. The hotel hosted some of the biggest celebrities in the world. It was not unusual for her to bring a room service cart up and find an Oscar winner in a bathrobe, or a bestselling singer clicking their fingers for the food to be brought in. She’d been petrified! But very quickly, she’d become used to it. She’d come to realise that for all the veneer and glamour that came with wealth and success, these were actually just people, with messy kitchen tables and unwashed dishes in the sink, cell phone chargers strung over coffee tables and the TV running in the background.

Normal people who needed expensive food at all hours of the day or night—and that was her job.

To bring food, lay it out and then leave. Invisible, professional, silent.

She waited for the door to open and was just about to press the button again when one side opened inwards, revealing a man in a button down shirt and trousers. Bare feet. Hair short cropped and dark brown, eyes even darker. Handsome—strikingly so—and somehow a little overwhelming. Features chiseled, lips flattened in a line of disapproval. Disapproval. Of her?

“Yes?” He had an accent, and his voice was gruff.

Cross?

Was it possible this was some kind of game of ding-dong-ditch? That he wasn’t expecting her? But, no. There was no way anyone had pranked him with a room service order. It wasn’t possible. Guest privacy was an important tenet of the hotel—in-room services could only be requested from a phone line in the corresponding room.

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