Chapter 7
Seven
ZOE / VICTORIA
I slammed the bedroom door and pressed my back against it, sliding down to the floor in a decidedly un-socialite-like heap.
My heart was doing its best impression of a techno beat, and my face felt hot enough to toast marshmallows.
Nothing says “I’m definitely your ice queen wife” like drooling over rolled-up sleeves and exposed forearms like they’re the last chocolate soufflé on Earth.
Which, by the way, was definitely Gregory’s fault. No one should be allowed to make dessert that good in a house ruled by a woman whose idea of indulgence was probably sniffing a sugar packet.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” My hands fluttered between my hair and my face, not sure which crisis to address first. “What was that? What was any of that? Stupid, stupid, stupid! Who asks a billionaire CEO about his day like he’s a regular office worker?
And the Korean drama? Really? Might as well have started singing K-pop…
Oh God, what’s next? Asking him to grab coffee like we’re normal people?
Get it together,” I muttered, pressing my palms against my burning cheeks.
“You’re supposed to be Victoria Everett, not a romance novel heroine having her first encounter with the brooding billionaire. ”
Except… holy hell, no one had warned me that Jason Everett was that attractive in person.
The book’s descriptions hadn’t done him justice.
All those mentions of “piercing blue eyes” and “commanding presence” hadn’t prepared me for the reality of him casually rolling up his sleeves and loosening his tie like he was modeling for a luxury magazine.
“Stop it,” I scolded myself, stumbling to my feet. “He’s married. To you. Well, to Victoria. Who’s technically you right now, but—” I groaned. “Great, now I’m giving myself a metaphysical headache.”
I needed to write this down. Process it. Maybe if I could get it all out on paper, it would stop bouncing around my head like a caffeinated pinball.
With my notebook—the one I’d nearly had a heart attack over leaving downstairs—I flopped onto Victoria’s ridiculously huge bed.
Day 1 as Victoria Everett (aka How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Being a Socialite)
Things I’ve done right:
Only screamed a little when I saw my reflection this morning (okay, a lot, but who wouldn’t?)
Successfully navigated a charity luncheon without starting a class war
Made Gregory’s day by actually eating his food
Managed not to hug the staff (yet)
Things I’ve done wrong:
Referenced bouncing at bars (because apparently Victoria’s never worked a day in her life)
Got caught watching Korean dramas (the horror!)
Acted like a normal human being (cardinal sin in socialite circles)
Nearly had an aneurysm over Jason’s forearms (WHY ARE THEY SO DISTRACTING?)
Notes on Jason Everett (purely for research purposes):
Book description: “Piercing blue eyes and commanding presence”
Reality: Unfairly attractive man who should come with a warning label
The way he rolls up his sleeves should be illegal in at least 48 states
Looks at me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle (Not good. Very not good.)
Voice does this thing that makes my stomach flip (Also not good.)
MUST maintain professional distance and stop staring at his:
forearms
chest
lips
BASICALLY, JUST STOP STARING AT ANY PART OF HIM, ZOE!!!
I snapped the notebook shut and buried my face in one of Victoria’s thousand-dollar pillows. “This is fine,” I mumbled into the Egyptian cotton. “Everything’s fine. I just need to?—”
My elbow knocked against something hard under the pillow. Frowning, I reached beneath it and pulled out a small leather-bound book.
Victoria’s diary.
Well, well, well. Looks like Ice Queen kept secrets after all.
With trembling fingers, I opened the diary. The first few pages were filled with Victoria’s elegant handwriting—precise and controlled, just like everything else about her.
January 15th: Another tedious dinner with the Vanderwells. Their new money shows. Sarah’s table settings were absolutely garish. Must ensure they’re seated at the far table for next month’s charity gala.
February 3rd: Mother insists I attend more social functions. As if I need her guidance on maintaining our family’s position. The Hayes name carries more weight than she realizes. Though Jason’s constant focus on work is becoming an embarrassment. A proper husband should be more visible in society.
I snorted, rolling my eyes. Of course Victoria’s diary would read like a social climbing manual. Even her private thoughts were cold and calculating, all about status and appearances.
“Well, that was disappointingly on-brand,” I muttered, tossing the diary aside. At least I didn’t have to worry about any secret scandals. Unless you counted being a complete snob as scandalous.
Now, back to my actual problem: how to survive dinner with Elizabeth Hayes tomorrow without giving away that I was an impostor wearing her daughter’s face.
Sleep should have come easily in this ridiculously comfortable bed, but my mind had other plans.
Despite my best efforts to count sheep—or in this case, probably designer handbags—I found myself tossing and turning, my thoughts refusing to shut down.
Instead, they kept replaying every moment with Jason in HD clarity.
Those lips, curved in that almost-smile that made my stomach feel like it was hosting its own private circus.
Those forearms, exposed by precisely rolled sleeves, all lean muscle and subtle strength that had no business being that distracting.
That chest, hinted at beneath his perfectly tailored shirt, rising and falling with each breath like some sort of corporate meditation exercise.
“Stop it,” I whispered to the ceiling, pulling the sheets over my head. “Those lips are meant for Sophia’s kisses. Those arms are supposed to hold her. That chest is her future pillow.”
But my traitorous mind wondered what it would feel like to be held against that chest, to have those arms wrap around me, to taste those lips… Would he be gentle? Demanding? Would those hands that commanded billion-dollar deals be soft or calloused?
“Great,” I muttered into the pillow, “I’m turning into a romance novel heroine.” I smothered my face deeper into the expensive Egyptian cotton. “Next thing you know, I’ll be writing terrible poetry about his jawline. Ode to a CEO’s Profile. Sonnets to His Suit. The Ballad of Perfect Forearms.”
But seriously, how blind and cold was Victoria? How did she share a home with this walking advertisement for masculine perfection and act like he was a particularly boring piece of furniture? The woman clearly needed her eyes checked. Or her pulse. Or maybe both.
I rolled onto my stomach, then my back, then my side.
The bed was huge enough that each position change felt like relocating to a new zip code.
“Stop thinking about Jason,” I commanded myself.
“Stop thinking about his hands. Stop thinking about his smile. Stop thinking about the way his voice gets all low and rumbly…”
Sleep finally claimed me, but my dreams were filled with rolled-up sleeves and knowing smirks.
Morning crept in with golden fingers of sunlight, and I fluttered my eyes open, immediately tensing.
For one heart-stopping moment, I thought I was back in my own bed, back in my own life, back to being just regular old Zoe the waitress.
A strange mixture of relief and disappointment flooded through me—until I turned my head and saw the crystal chandelier twinkling above. The massive windows with their silk drapes. The elegant furniture that probably cost more than my entire apartment building.
“Still here,” I whispered, a grin spreading across my face. “Still living in a romance novel.”
My stomach growled, reminding me that even fictional characters needed breakfast. More importantly, they needed coffee.
The memory of the heavenly brew from yesterday was enough to get me rolling—literally rolling—out of bed.
I hit the plush carpet with a soft thump, tangled in the sheets like a cut-rate burrito.
“Victoria Everett, the epitome of grace,” I muttered, fighting my way free of my silk prison. “Good thing the society pages can’t see you now.”
I tiptoed down the hallway in my sweatpants and oversized t-shirt, feeling like a teenager sneaking out. The heated marble floors were a luxury my old apartment definitely never had, but right now, I was more focused on stealth than comfort.
Halfway down the grand staircase, I nearly collided with Maria, who was carrying fresh towels.
She took one look at my sneaking stance and my guilty expression and had to press her lips together to maintain her professional composure.
I pressed a finger to my lips in an exaggerated shhh gesture, then pointed downstairs and mimed drinking coffee.
She gave me a conspiratorial nod and hurried up the stairs, but not before I caught the small shake of her head that seemed to say, “What has gotten into Mrs. Everett?” I made a mental note to ask Gregory to make extra cookies for the staff break room—they deserved combat pay for dealing with the real Victoria.
Pausing at the corner that led to the kitchen, I peeked around it like a spy in a particularly low-budget movie.
And there he was. Jason Everett in all his morning glory, making coffee in a crisp white shirt with the top buttons undone.
Because, apparently, the universe hated me and wanted me to suffer.
I watched, transfixed, as he lifted the cup to his lips.
His throat moved as he swallowed, and I found myself swallowing too.
Which was ridiculous because I wasn’t drinking anything except maybe my own drool.
Who gave him the right to make coffee-drinking look like a scene from a luxury watch commercial?