Chapter 8
LENI
I should have just gone home.
But when I got out through the side door, I realized I had no ride home. No money to order one, either. I’d have to walk. All the way.
So, in a burst of rebellion, I marched right back inside, hoping I’d find Romero still in that hallway. If he was still lingering there, that meant he didn’t want to be in the ballroom, right? Maybe he’d give me a ride.
But he was already gone.
I should have left then. Should have just started the long walk home. But instead, I found myself slipping down the hallway with my head held high, into the elaborate foyer, heading straight for the ballroom. I had no plan, really. Just figured if I could get Romero’s attention, he’d help me.
So, I opened the door just a crack… and then chickened out. The butler stood nearby, and I wasn’t about to risk his wrath on top of everything else.
I should have gone home then.
But I stayed. Crouched there like an idiot, peeking in, searching the sea of designer gowns and tailored suits for one familiar face.
Then I found him.
A gorgeous woman saunters up to him, stretching out her hand. One of the men beside him is clearly making introductions, and Romero flashes her a charming smile as he shakes her hand.
Is that his type?
My heart plummets straight to my stomach, dragging every ounce of energy with it.
What is this feeling? Jealousy?
No. That can’t be right. We’re not… anything. You can’t be jealous over someone who was never yours to begin with.
Just because he helped me out a couple of times, I thought I was the Juliet to his Romeo? God, I actually called him Romeo. Cringe. What a moron.
Sure, watching him deck that perverted creep was satisfying as hell, but that doesn’t mean I like him. I don’t even know the man.
But then his eyes sweep the ballroom, and somehow—impossibly—they find mine through the crack in the door. My heart launches itself up from my stomach right into my throat, and begins thudding.
In a room packed with hundreds of people, his gaze keeps finding mine like we are magnets.
It’s not fate, you idiot. It’s coincidence.
I stumble backwards from the door, my face burning with shame, then do what I should have done in the first place—I leave. Outside, the cool air hits my flushed cheeks, and I let out a shaky breath.
That walk home is going to be hell.
I sigh and climb down the stairs, choosing the front entrance instead of slinking out the back door like some servant. What else can Fred do? Double fire me? Is that even a thing? My little rebellious streak fizzles out as reality crashes back down.
Fuck. Two hours of pay. That’s all I have to show for tonight’s humiliation. Two measly hours that won’t last us more than a day.
What am I going to do?
The sound of a door closing behind me has me glancing back curiously, and I nearly trip over my own feet when I see Romero walking out, his long strides eating up the distance between us. He came to find me?
Even as I try to tell myself not to be delusional, I stop walking, waiting for him to catch up.
“What? You got bored of mingling with the rich and powerful already? Dinner’s about to start.” The words come out sharp, all my confusion and frustration bleeding through.
“I am rich and powerful. And I’m not hungry. Not for food anyway.”
Did… did he just check me out when he said that? No, I must be dreaming.
I clear my throat. “Yeah, well. Good night.” But my feet stay planted. I don’t move an inch.
His lips curl into a slow smile that has my tongue tying up and my stomach fluttering. It’s not the same smile he gave that woman back in the ballroom. This one is softer, more genuine, and actually reaches his eyes. It gives me the illusion that I’m special.
The Maybach pulls up in the driveway, drawing both our eyes. “Come on.” He nods towards the car and starts walking.
I hesitate, my chest tightening. Isn’t this exactly what I wanted when I went to peek into that ballroom?
For him to see me and offer me a ride? But now that it’s happening, panic floods my system.
Being alone with him in that car feels dangerous in ways I can’t explain.
Not because he’ll hurt me—I don’t think he would—but because I might do something catastrophically stupid. Like… what if I try to kiss him?
I can’t be trusted alone with him.
“You coming, bellezza?” He turns back, waiting.
Bellezza. The word sends heat rushing through my veins. I googled it after the first time he called me that—it means beauty. At the time, I could tell myself it was just a casual endearment, just something he said because he didn’t know my name. But he knows it now. So… what’s his excuse?
It feels like I’m floating as I walk towards him. He gives me that smile again—the real one—and my heart kicks into overdrive, making me a little dizzy. Shit, what if I have a heart attack before I get home? At twenty–three, that would be just my luck.
He opens the back door for me, and I slip in without thinking.
As soon as I sink into the leather seat, the world outside just…
fades. The door closes with a soft click—no harsh slam, no jarring noise—and suddenly it’s just me, wrapped in cool, expensive air.
The interior carries the faintest smell of leather and something warm like polished wood and quiet luxury. A scent I’ve noticed around Romero.
A moment later, the door on the other side opens, and when he slides in beside me, the scent intensifies, curling around me, tightening in my chest and making my head spin.
God, why does he smell so good? What cologne does he use?
I want to lean into him, to press my face against his neck and breathe him in.
The thought is so inappropriate it makes my face flame.
The engine hums to life with a low purr, and we roll away from the mansion’s driveway like we’re not even touching the ground.
“Where to?” Romero asks.
I blink at him, common sense managing to slip through the fog of attraction.
No matter how I feel about him, I can’t give him my actual address.
“You can drop me at Mother Gaston Boulevard and Hegeman Avenue.” It’s far enough from my place that he won’t be able to trace me if he wanted to, but close enough that I can jog the rest of the way without too much stress.
He watches me for a beat, then leans forward to open the partition and give his driver the location. Once he’s done, he closes it again and settles back in his seat. “Would you like a drink?”
The question, delivered in that soft, intimate tone—paired with the way the low lighting darkens his eyes—knocks the air clean out of my lungs.
For a moment, I can’t even speak. What the hell is wrong with me?
I shake my head and turn away, pretending the blur of passing streetlights is suddenly fascinating.
A long, quiet moment stretches between us. I can feel him watching me, waiting. And then—
“What did Carlo say to you in that restroom?”
My head jerks towards him. What? Of all the things he could ask.
“None of your business,” I snap, sounding more like Ethan than I care to admit.
It’s easier to be angry than to acknowledge how off-balance Romero makes me feel.
And I really don’t want to think back to what that old fucker Carlo said.
‘Three days with you warming my bed and you never have to serve again.’ As if serving is such a dirty job. I’d rather wait tables for the rest of my life than prostitute myself, I’d told him. He didn’t appreciate that response. At all. He grabbed my arm, and I raised my voice out of pure terror.
Thank God I did.
“How did you know I was in there anyway?” Come to think of it—how did he even overhear Fred scolding me in the first place? Unless… “Did you follow me from the ballroom after I spilled that drink?”
Now it’s his turn to stare out the window without answering.
So he did follow me. But… why?
And why is he even driving me home right now? It has to be out of his way.
I swallow and let the questions die in my chest. No point looking for meaning in every little thing he does.
Maybe he wants me the way I want him, but nothing could ever come of it.
Men like him don’t go for women like me—not seriously.
Maybe as a mistress, a little side entertainment, but never anything real.
And I’d be completely heartbroken if he made the same kind of proposition that disgusting old man, Carlo, did.
The rest of the ride passes in tense silence, both of us lost in our own thoughts. When the car finally slows to a stop, I force myself to meet his eyes. “Thank you for the ride.”
His gaze meets mine, something wary flickering in its depths. “You're welcome, bellezza.”
The endearment sends warmth flooding through me, but I just nod, hoping he can’t see how much he affects me.
Then I slip out of the car and jog away from him, back to my real life.
Away from glittering chandeliers and sprawling mansions, away from luxury cars and men who smell like heaven but are completely out of my league.
BANG!
I jolt upright in bed, heart racing. Something crackles under me as I shift, drawing a sleepy frown to my face. I blink down, eyes struggling to focus.
Papers. Everywhere.
It takes a second, but then it clicks—oh, right. The job ads. Newspaper clippings. Flyers I grabbed from store windows all over town yesterday while hunting for work. It’s only been a day, but I’m already so so tired.
What the hell woke me up?
A wide yawn takes over my face, and I start to brush the papers off my bed so I can lie back down. But the moment my head touches the pillow—
BANG! BANG! BANG!
I jolt upright again, my heart now pounding in perfect rhythm with the banging I now realize is someone throwing their full weight against our front door. Over and over.
Are we about to get robbed?
Shit, shit, shit. We don’t have anything worth stealing.