Chapter 10 Seas the Day （and the Billionaire）
SEAS THE DAY (AND THE BILLIONAIRE)
MIA
By evening, the August heat in Nice has mellowed into something almost tolerable, though Bianca's artist loft still feels like the inside of a pottery kiln.
Sprawled across her paint-splattered couch with my laptop, I scroll through nanny job postings while she clatters around her kitchen making what she optimistically calls "dinner."
"Another family in Monaco looking for someone to manage their 'spirited' twins," I announce, clicking through job descriptions. "Translation: their children are tiny sociopaths and they've driven off three nannies this summer."
"Ooh, or this one," I continue. "Ultra-wealthy family seeks 'discreet' childcare professional for 'unique family dynamic.' That's definitely code for something involving either organized crime or reality television."
Julianna emerges from Bianca's wine fridge—because of course my sommelier older sister installed a proper wine fridge in our baby sister's chaotic apartment art studio.
"Stop looking at job postings and tell us about the movers," she says, settling into the only chair not covered in art supplies. "Did they get everything out of Ricardo's place?"
"Most of it." I close the laptop with a thwack. "Though apparently Ricardo was there to 'supervise' and kept asking questions about my new employer."
"What kind of questions?" Bianca calls from the kitchen, where something is starting to smell like burning garlic.
"The usual narcissistic ex-boyfriend stuff. Whether Roarke and I are sleeping together, how much he's paying me, if I'm going to 'upgrade' from domestic help to trophy wife."
Jules sputters on her wine. "He actually said that?"
"Among other charming observations. He also mentioned that he saw the gala photos in Monaco Social and thinks I'm 'punching above my weight class.'"
"That bastard," Bianca mutters, aggressively stirring something that's definitely burning now. "I hope you told the movers to accidentally drop his signed cookbook collection."
"B, focus on not burning down your apartment," I say, then turn to Jules. "The point is, I have enough money now to get my own place. These two paychecks from Roarke will cover first and last month's rent somewhere decent, plus utilities."
"FIRE! THERE'S FIRE!" Bianca shrieks from the kitchen.
The two of us rush over to find her frantically waving a dish towel at a pan that's producing impressive amounts of smoke.
"Step back!" Jules commands, grabbing the pan and dumping it in the sink. "Jesus, B, how do you burn olive oil?"
"It's a gift. Good thing I have backup pizza on speed dial."
Twenty minutes later, we're sharing mediocre takeout pizza while Jules interrogates me with the exacting attention she usually reserves for a rare wine vintage.
"So let me understand this correctly.” She twirls cheese around her fork. "You're planning to find another nanny job instead of staying with the billionaire who's clearly crazy about you."
"He's not crazy about me. He's crazy about the sex." I take a large bite of pizza to avoid elaborating.
"Is he though?" Bianca leans forward, eyebrows quirked.
"Because from what you've told us, he's also learning show tunes with his niece, letting a delinquent parakeet redecorate his yacht, and attending family lunches with his grandmother.
That doesn't sound like a man who's thinking with his dick. "
“Way to bury the lede there, B," Jules chides automatically.
"You're both missing the point.” I exhale, pushing melting cheese back onto my slice, my heart hammering. "After the gala, he made it very clear that our... time together was a mistake. He literally said it can't happen again."
"Because he thinks he's taking advantage of you," Jules points out. "Not because he doesn't want you."
"Same difference."
"Is it though?" Bianca steals a piece of my pizza. "When's the last time you actually told a man what you wanted instead of just accepting whatever crumbs he was willing to give you?"
“That’s not—I don’t do that."
"Really? Because with Ricardo, you accepted being treated like staff who occasionally warmed his bed. And now with Roarke, you're accepting being dismissed like a temporary employee instead of fighting for what you want."
"I am fighting! I'm looking for better opportunities—"
"You're running away," Jules interrupts. "Just like you ran away from Ricardo's humiliation instead of standing up for yourself."
"What was I supposed to do? He cheated on me with a client. A food ‘influencer’ who literally can’t tell garlic from a Gucci bag. He humiliated me."
"Yeah, and you were supposed to fight back!
I mean, come on, Mia. You could have done anything—something.
Sued him for harassment. Exposed his unprofessional conduct.
Made him pay for treating you like garbage.
" Bianca's eyes flash. "Instead, you just..
. accepted it. Packed your bags and convinced yourself you deserved it. "
The words cloud in the air like smoke from Bianca's culinary disaster.
“That wasn’t—“ I start, then stop.
Because maybe it is true.
Maybe I have spent my entire adult life accepting whatever treatment people were willing to give me, grateful for any scraps of affection or respect.
"Mia," Jules says softly, "when's the last time you asked for what you actually wanted instead of just being grateful for what someone else decided you deserved?"
I stare at my pizza, thinking about every job I've taken.
Every relationship I've settled for.
Every time I've made myself smaller to fit into someone else's life.
"You're scared," Bianca continues. "You're scared that if you ask for more, you'll lose what little you have. But honey, what you have right now is a man who's clearly falling for you but thinks he has to protect you from himself."
"And instead of showing him that you're strong enough to make your own choices," Jules adds, "you're planning to disappear and let him think he was right to keep his distance."
"It's not that simple—"
"It is that simple." Bianca stands up, pacing to her easel where a half-finished painting captures the Monaco harbor in brilliant blues and golds. "You like him. You like him a lot. And he likes you. Everything else is just fear talking."
"I never said I-I liked him."
Both my sisters give me identical looks of pitying exasperation.
"Mia," Jules says patiently, "you've been glowing like a woman in love since the day you started working for him. And before you say it's just good sex, let me remind you that you've never glowed after any of Ricardo's efforts."
"Can we not discuss my sex life over pizza?"
"We can discuss whatever we want over pizza," Bianca declares. “Now the only question is what are you going to do about it?"
I look at both of them—Jules with her practical wisdom and protective instincts, Bianca with her artistic soul and fierce loyalty—and realize they're right.
I have been running.
When you get to my age, sometimes you figure you should stop asking for the things you asked for in your twenties. You figure you should accept whatever comes your way.
And honestly? That’s been me. Accepting crumbs instead of asking for the whole meal.
But God, the whole meal tastes good. And now that this thing with Roarke has given me a bite of what better could be, I know—deep in my soul...that I can never have crumbs again.
"I'm going to negotiate," I hear myself say.
"Negotiate what?" Jules asks.
"My contract terms." I reach for my phone, scrolling to Claire's contact. "If Roarke thinks this is just about professional boundaries, maybe it's time to make it about something else entirely."
As I start typing, both my sisters grin.
"That's our girl," Bianca says. "About time you remembered you're a catch, not a consolation prize."
For the first time in months—Hell, years—I feel like I might actually deserve something good.
Time to find out if Roarke West agrees.