Page 5 of The Billionaire and the Maid

“I didn’t say you had to be in love,” he replies.

“Oh. So, you want me to be more like you, then?” I ask, my jaw tightening with each word I speak.

Dad doesn’t like my tone and he returns my glare. “Do not test me, Chase. You won’t like what happens. Now, get the fuck out of my office. I have things to do,” he snarls, his voice cold.

I stand and leave, not bothering to question the Great Luca Marino. How the hell can my father and grandfather be so different? I suddenly wish Tate was the oldest, and next in line to run the company. Because if my father is going to dictate the rest of my life by holding things over my head, I’d rather be free of these chains. I glance out the window as I leave the office and see my grandfather’s villa in the distance again, remembering that I was heading out there a few minutes ago. Fuck. I can’t let him down. He’s the only person who truly gets me. And this company is his life.

I step into the hallway, closing the door behind me. I lean against it.

“Where the hell am I going to find a girlfriend in less than thirty days?” I ask myself out loud.

CHAPTERTHREE

Ella

Greta smiles as she sits across from me. We’re having coffee at my friend Elisha’s café on Main Street.

“So, how’s the Marino estate? You know all those extra hours are to help the staff prepare for the charity holiday ball they are holding there at the end of the month,” she points out.

I nod. “I’ve heard that,” I say as I wonder why I’m cleaning Chase’s apartment when I should be spending more time cleaning the silver and fine china. But then I think of the grand ballroom at the estate, and I sigh as I put my head in my hands, my elbows propped on the table. “Isn’t it romantic? I mean, a ball. I can’t believe people still go to balls.”

Greta rolls her eyes. “Snap out of it, Ella. It’s a rich-people thing. And besides, if you want to go so badly, then go.”

My eyes widen and my hands drop. “I can’t go. I don’t even have an invitation.”

“Really? I’m surprised. Isn’t your stepmom always mingling with that crowd at the tennis club and country club and all the other clubs?” Greta asks as Gus walks into the café, giving us a wave.

I shrug. “I don’t know. She hasn’t said anything.”

“When was the last time Nancy Foster told you anything,” Greta states.

“I…well, never,” I admit. I hate that she’s right. I hate that my stepmom is, well, my stepmom. If only my father had known the witch she truly is.

“Exactly. You should just ask her. Maybe she has an extra ticket. Heck, maybe I can get you a ticket,” Greta suggests. I want to laugh because the likelihood that Nancy would give me an extra ticket to the town’s event of the year is as likely as me winning the lottery.

“Yeah, maybe. And thanks, but what would I even wear? I don’t own anything like that,” I declare with a sigh.

Gus sits down and looks between us. “Own anything like what?”

Greta leans in toward Gus conspiratorially. “A ball gown.”

“Oh, do tell,” Gus prods as he looks at me.

“You two have got to stop. I don’t have an invite to this ball. Even if I did, I have nothing to wear. So why are we even talking about it?” I ask.

“Well, if we do get you an invite, come see me. I may have something that would fit you perfectly,” Greta assures me.

“Greta, I—”

“Just promise me,” she urges.

“Fine, if by some miracle I get an invite to this ball, which is totally not going to happen, I will come to see you about something to wear,” I promise. I want to ask Greta how she thinks she’ll get a ticket, but I decide she must be hopeful wishing or maybe she knows someone, she does run in circles with some of our town’s wealthier residents.

“See? Was that so hard?” she asks with a smirk.

I roll my eyes.

“So, how is the job over there?” Greta asks again.

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