Page 49 of The Billionaire's Cinderella

13

Ella

“Charity case?”Ryker seems taken aback. “I never said you were a charity case.”

“But you thought it. Didn’t you?”

The hot flare of my pride turns me into some sort of emotional lawyer, determined to cross-examine him into admitting the ugly truth. Namely that he understands his economic superiority over me and my humble circumstances, past and present, and pities me accordingly.

He knows he’s a czar. Just like I know he knows I’m only a serf.

Meanwhile, it occurs to me, in a dark but logical corner of my mind, that my insecurities may be making me both see things that aren’t there and behave as though I’m batshit crazy. But anyone will tell you that the best thing to do during turbulent moments like this is to ignore that little voice of logic. Better yet, just stamp it into oblivion the way my mother used to stamp on the occasional bug in our shitty little apartment when I was growing up. Just let the crazy run free.

So that’s what I do.

Ryker hesitates, his eyes wide as he navigates through this conversation the way a bomb defuser tiptoes through a minefield: with extreme caution.

“Ella. It’s never once crossed my mind that you’re a charity case. What’s going on?”

His absolute calm pierces some of my bravado. He certainly seems sincere. But my pride remains on standby, ready and willing to weapon up and charge into battle, sword raised.

“I don’t want you feeling sorry for me,” I say.

“I don’t. I never have.”

“I can buy my own dress. If I need one. I just won’t buy it from Nordstrom.”

He nods, eager to agree with whatever gets him off the hot seat the quickest. “Of course you can. I didn’t mean to offend you. Nordstrom just came to mind because it’s near the restaurant. I’m kicking myself for not mentioning the reservation to you. Then you could’ve brought your own dress from home.”

He looks so sincere and chagrined that I have no choice but to believe him.

“It’s not your fault,” I admit, most likely because my squirming guilty conscience requires it in the face of his thoughtfulness tonight.

The truth? Sure, I have plenty of cute vintage dresses back at my apartment. If my friends and I are going for a day at the shore (flirty sundress with cute flats), a walk in the park (flirty sundress with cute sneakers) and/or a night at a club (vaguely slutty LBD with come fuck me heels), I’m fully covered.

But when it comes to fine dining at a French restaurant where they probably check your current bank statement before deigning to send your hors d’oeuvre order back to the kitchen? My closet is bare.

And there’s more to my sudden anxiety than that. I’ve heard about Le Bernardin. I’ve checked the menu out of idle curiosity and as a foodie who appreciates fine dining as a rare treat. But I’m out of my depth on that one. I’m not joking when I tell you that I’ve been to cooking school and still can’t identify half of the items on the menu. Do I want to go there and look like a bumbling fool in a secondhand dress in front of Ryker and a good chunk of Manhattan’s other wealthiest people?

No. No, I do not.

But that’s not his fault.

“Sorry,” I say, feeling awkward as I smooth my ponytail. “I didn’t mean to flip out on you. I appreciate your offer.”

He nods, but his expression is still shadowed as he shoves his hands in his pockets and stares down at the floor for a second. Then he pulls one hand out and rubs his chin as he eyeballs me. He seems to consider his next words carefully, throwing some away and picking others up.

“This isn’t something we’ve gotten into before, but we need to talk about it. I’m going to pay. When you and I are together, I’ll pay. If you need anything—a dress, shoes, help with rent, whatever you want or need—I’ll take care of it. That’s just how it’s going to be.”

There it is again. The implication that I can’t take care of myself. My hackles go up, right on cue.

“But I don’t—”

“And that doesn’t have to do with me thinking you’re a charity case,” he says quickly. “It has to do with me having the money to pay for things.”

“Well, maybe, but you need to respect the fact that my independence is important to me.”

“Help me out.” A tinge of impatience creeps into his voice. “What the hell does me paying for dresses or dinner have to do with your independence?”

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