Page 67 of The Billionaire's Cinderella

17

Ella

“Get in here,”Aunt Gilda says as she opens my bedroom door at Ryker’s family estate in the Hamptons shortly before midnight the evening of the ball. Bellamy darts inside, resplendent in her white satin gown and carrying a bottle of champagne. Aunt Gilda snaps the door shut behind her and gestures toward me, her expression grim. “You’re just in time with the liquor, Bellamy. She’s freaking out.”

“I am not freaking out.” I turn away from the full-length mirror, where my wide-eyed and vaguely panicked face stares back at me. I’ve been primped and preened to within an inch of my life, including a manicure and pedicure. The glamour girl in the mirror has been through hair and makeup courtesy of some of Aunt Gilda’s many hidden talents, and bears little to no resemblance to my normal self, whose entire morning beauty regimen consists of brushing her hair into a ponytail and slicking on some lip gloss if I have time. I look as though someone took me by my heel, dipped me in sparkling fairy dust and changed me into this million-dollar version of myself.

All that’s missing is my dress, which looks as though I stole it from Jennifer Lopez’s couture wardrobe and hangs on a hook on the back of the closet door, waiting for me. It’s the beauty I saw in the window of the vintage store when I got the Manolos the other day. Thank God it was still available when I went back for it. Thank God it fit.

Trying not to teeter or trip in my heels (I’ve got two hours or twenty-five hundred steps, tops, in these things before my toes begin to fall off one by one), I tighten the belt on my kimono, reach for my empty flute and present it to Bellamy for replenishment. Bellamy raises her delicate brows and works a little faster on uncorking the new bottle, but wisely says nothing.

“Whatever you say,” Aunt Gilda says, exchanging a sidelong look with Bellamy.

That look speaks volumes. It’s like the Anna Karenina of looks, telling tales about my nonstop pacing, my constant fretting and, probably, my imminent panic attack. That look does nothing for my morale, which is bordering on collapse on this, the biggest night of my life thus far.

“And if I were freaking out, which I’m clearly not,” I say, wincing as the cork pops, “could you blame me?”

“How much has she had already?” Bellamy asks Aunt Gilda in a stage whisper as she refills my glass.

“Not enough,” Aunt Gilda says.

Bellamy returns my glass, and I take several healthy sips for fortification.

“What could make me freak out?” I pause to stifle an unladylike burp. The glamour girl in the mirror would not approve of belching. Then I exaggerate a frown and tap my chin with my index finger. “Let me think. Could it be that I snuck into Ryker’s house without his knowledge and took over the blue bedroom? And that he could have me, I don’t know, arrested for trespassing and/or thrown out at any second? Or how about the fact that I’m about make a grand entrance to his big ball, also without his knowledge? And then, assuming I make it down the staircase in these crazy heels without either tripping and falling to my death or just tripping and embarrassing myself in front of a bunch of snobby rich people, could it be that I have no earthly idea what I’m going to say to Ryker? And maybe he’s completely written me off by now? Maybe decided that his ex-wife or some other woman is a lot less trouble than I am? I think any of that gives me a hall pass to freak out tonight if I wanted to. But I’m not. Freaking. Out.”

“Wow. Convincing denial,” Bellamy says mildly as she sits on the edge of the bed. “I’m sold. How about you, Aunt Gilda?”

“I can’t even.” Aunt Gilda reaches up and makes a minute adjustment to my hair. She’s got it arranged in one of those half-up, half-down styles, with a crystal-studded headband that reminds me of something an ancient Greek woman might wear. “She’s driving me batshit crazy. You talk her down from the ledge for a minute. I’m exhausted. I need to store up some energy for getting her into the dress.”

I shoot her a death stare, bat her hand away—I can’t take any further fiddling or tweaking—and finish my champagne. By rights, I should be feeling no pain by now, but I haven’t experienced any infusion of liquid courage just yet. I can only pray it’ll show up eventually.

“Fair enough,” Bellamy says with a dramatic sigh of resignation. “But first, I want to point out that this is all your fault, Ella.”

“My fault?” I cry, outraged by this accusation. As if I haven’t suffered enough tonight.

“Your fault. You’re the one who refused to call him earlier this week and get all this worked out before tonight. Then you could have at least had that out of the way.”

“Yeah, but I felt like I needed to make a big gesture after the way our conversation ended the other day. Plus, then I’d still have the whole ball issue,” I point out. “At least this way, if it all works out, I’ll only have to attend a little bit of the ball. Which is why I’m not going down until around midnight. I can only manufacture so much small talk with complete strangers.”

Exasperated sighs from both members of the peanut gallery.

“You do realize that most women enjoy getting dressed up and wearing a nice dress,” Aunt Gilda tells me.

“That’s exactly my point,” I say, my voice rising along with my anxiety level. “I’m doing my best not to feel like I’m some second-rate imposter who should be kicked out so Ryker can find the woman he really belongs with.” It hits me that I’m singing the same old sad song, and I discover that I’m sick of myself and my various insecurities. And if I’m sick of me, God knows how these poor women feel. “Sorry. I thought I was over this after my talk with my brother. I don’t mean to be so needy. And I thought you were going to get me down from the ledge, Bellamy. Some best friend you are.”

“Ella. Sweetheart,” she says with strained patience. The poor thing has been through this drill before with me tonight. “First of all, you’re not trespassing. We have Griffin’s permission for you to be here.”

“So you say,” I mutter.

“Second,” Bellamy continues, raising her voice, “Griffin was happy to have you come because he’s worried about his brother. With good reason. I just saw Ryker, and, I gotta tell you, I’m half afraid he’s going to put some rocks in his pockets, pull a Virginia Woolf and walk down to the beach and out into the ocean, never to be seen again. He’s been moping around all night. Griffin says he hasn’t been himself since you and he started having problems. Trust me. Ryker is going to be thrilled to see you. Thrilled.”

I look to Aunt Gilda for her input. She pauses in the middle of clamping a gold cuff on my upper arm and gives me an encouraging nod.

I feel somewhat better. If Ryker missed me as much as I missed him the last few days, then I truly do have nothing to worry about.

“From your lips to God’s ears,” I say. “Have you got any advice about managing these heels?”

Bellamy flaps a hand, the image of the sort of confident woman I’m going to pretend to be in a few minutes. “You’re just going to have to strut like you’re on a catwalk somewhere. Own it. Have some confidence. You belong here as much as anyone else does. Trust me. Every woman down there is hoping she doesn’t trip and fall. Just like you. I wore heels to the office every day. I was fine. You’ll be fine, too.”

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