Page 54 of The Billionaire's Cinderella

14

Ella—One Year Later

It’s payday!Today’s the day! I’m getting my next pair of reward shoes!

I ditch my apron, grab my wallet and slip out of Valentina’s on my early afternoon lunch break, propelled down the sidewalk toward the vintage shop by a mixture of sunshine, fuzzy kittens and cupcake sprinkles. The sky is bright, the air is fresh (for Manhattan, anyway) and I’ve paid off another of my smaller student loans, which means that I get to indulge myself with a little luxury shopping.

In other words, all is right with my world on this glorious summer day.

Although, to be fair, all has been right with my world in the time that Ryker and I have been together. Like clockwork, the mere thought of him sends a pulse of unabashed joy from my brain to my mouth, creating a sappy smile that I bestow on a passing Chihuahua, his bouncing head protruding from his owner’s purse. The owner scowls at me and clutches her purse closer to her side. I laugh because I don’t care. Nothing will ruin this day for me.

I duck under the vintage store’s awning, press my hands to the display window and lose myself in a Carrie Bradshaw moment. Hey. I’ve earned it.

“Hello, lover,” I tell the shoes as they sit there waiting for me, next to a filmy and gorgeous white gown that would be perfect for a beach wedding. “Time to come home with Mama.”

I hurry inside, where I’m met by Sheila, my friendly neighborhood salesperson. Her grin matches mine, probably because she knows what this moment means to me after months of me stopping by, visiting the Manolo Blahniks and watching several other beautiful pairs come and go while I saved my coins.

“These were meant to be yours, Ella,” she says, taking them out of the window and ushering me over to a chair by the mirror, where I sit and kick off my ugly work shoes and socks. “What are the chances of a pair in your size turning up right when you’re ready to buy them?”

“I know! Thanks for calling me. I appreciate the heads-up.”

“I’m just glad they’re going to a worthy home,” she says fondly.

She hands them over, and I receive them with a gasp and the reverence of one of Mariah Carey’s super fans being allowed to hold her butterfly ring.

Manolo Blahniks. The Pacha pair, to be specific. Silver cap toes and heels. Clear PVC sides. Like Waterford crystal for the feet. True works of art that seem as though they belong in a museum display case.

“How do they feel?” Sheila asks as I slip them on and stand up to test them out.

“Amazing,”I say with a dreamy sigh.

It’s true. I know that stilettos aren’t known for making your toes happy, but these are different. These make me feel like a new person. Someone with class and sophistication who doesn’t wage a daily struggle with powdered sugar on her face and pastry dough under her fingernails. Someone who has somewhere special to go and a special man to go with.

I know, I know. I’m not a party person, and the opportunities for wearing the shoes are thin on the ground when you’re a workaholic pastry chef. But I already have the special man.

And I freaking love these shoes. I can wear them the next time the opportunity to go to a fancy restaurant with him comes up.

“I’ll take them,” I tell Sheila.

“Wonderful. I’ll meet you at the register after you have a look around. See what’s new.”

She whisks the shoes away for boxing and wrapping, leaving me to wistfully stare at the lovely dress in the window (don’t get crazy, Ella, you can’t afford the shoes and a dress) as I sit and put my socks and clunky clogs back on. I’ve got one on and one off when the string of bells on the front door tinkles, announcing the arrival of a new customer. It’s a tall, thin, gorgeous and well-dressed woman—basically a model in search of a runway—loaded down with dry-cleaned clothes, probably designer, that I assume she plans to consign for several thousand dollars. A distant note of recognition sounds in my brain as I try to place her face. As bad luck would have it, this happens just as our eyes connect.

Just as I’m bent over, reaching for my second ugly shoe.

I freeze.

Oh, shit.

It’s Rebecca. Ryker’s ex-wife.

I work my mouth into a passable smile, determined to be pleasant and not slip into my abyss of low self-esteem. So she looks amazing and I look like the Pillsbury Doughboy in my white uniform. So what? I may not have her money, but I have just as much right to be here as she does. I want the record to reflect that I have all the right intentions and that they last for a good millisecond.

All the way up until she gives me a Miranda Priestly look of deep disapproval.

I’m telling you, as she hits me with that micro expression that screams WTF?, I actually feel like poor Andy standing there in her clunky black shoes, plaid skirt and lumpy cerulean sweater, a fish way the hell out of water in the hallowed hallways of Runway fashion magazine.

Still, I’m determined to enjoy my day and, more importantly, to impersonate a confident woman for as long as possible. So I stand and put my back into my smile.

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