Her Festive Billionaire (Billionaires of Pleasure Valley #6)

Chapter 1 Gabriella

GAbrIELLA

Ireally should’ve taken the tinsel out of my hair.

That was my very first thought as I stepped out of the elevator at Festive Media Studios, glitter shedding off my Christmas sweater like I was a deranged holiday fairy.

In my defense, I hadn’t planned on being seen by humans today. Yesterday afternoon, when the company-wide email dropped announcing that we were all expected in the office this morning, I’d had exactly two words for my boss’s boss’s boss.

Fuck. Him.

Fuck Eli Shepard and his last-minute “back to the office for team bonding” mandate. Fuck the company that had wooed me during the interview with big talk about being a distributed workforce and respecting work-life balance.

Fuck the idea of professionalism when I’d planned to wear sweatpants, drink leftover cocoa straight from the mug, and mournfully vacuum pine needles off my floor during my work breaks.

Instead, I was here—festive hair, under-eye circles, and a tumbler full of coffee I didn’t have time to drink sloshing in my hand like a liability.

So yes. Tinsel hair. Big energy. Zero regrets.

The office buzzed with activity—keyboards clacking, voices overlapping in a cacophony that made my chest tighten.

Someone laughed too loud near the break room.

A phone rang somewhere, shrill and insistent.

The scent of competing perfumes mixed with coffee and something vaguely industrial that made my nose wrinkle.

This was going to be a disaster.

I clutched my laptop bag tighter and tried to look like I belonged here. Like I hadn’t spent the last six months working from my bed in pajama pants with cable romcoms playing in the background for company.

The open floor plan stretched out before me like a minefield—sleek white desks, industrial lighting, and exposed brick that probably cost a fortune.

Apparently, this was a hot-desking situation.

The email hadn’t exactly come with a seating chart.

But one scan of the space made it clear that most people were just…

claiming spots. Laptops open, bags slung over chairs, coffee cups marking their domain.

“Excuse me,” I said to a guy speed-walking past me with a tablet. “Do you know where—”

He didn’t even slow down. “Meeting in five. Can’t talk.”

Cool. Great. Love the energy here.

I spotted a hallway branching off to the left and made an executive decision. If I couldn’t find my actual boss—Shelby, the marketing director who’d hired me and had been my only point of contact for six months—maybe I could find someone in management who could point me in the right direction.

The hallway was quieter, thank god. My heels clicked against the polished concrete as I passed glass-walled conference rooms and what looked like a content studio. Through one window, I caught a glimpse of ring lights and a backdrop that read Joy to the Scroll in looping script.

At the end of the hall, a door stood slightly ajar. No nameplate, but through the gap, I could see a massive desk, floor-to-ceiling windows, and the kind of view that screamed “corner office.”

Perfect. Someone important would be in there.

I knocked twice, pushing the door open before waiting for an answer because apparently, I’d left all my social skills at home with my common sense. “Hi, sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for—”

My overstuffed bag—because I’d panic-packed like I was prepping for the apocalypse—caught on the door handle. I felt the tug, tried to compensate, and instead swung too wide into the office. My bag collided with something on a credenza just inside the door.

Time slowed down in that horrible way it does when you know you’ve messed up but can’t stop the momentum. I watched in horror as an entire display of what looked like awards—glass rectangles and crystal sculptures and sleek modern trophies—began to topple.

One fell. Then another. Then they all went down like dominoes made of my professional reputation.

The crash was spectacular. Earth-shattering. The kind of noise that probably echoed through the entire office and made everyone stop what they were doing to wonder what exploded.

Glass didn’t actually shatter—thankfully—but the cacophony of expensive awards clattering against wood and each other was somehow worse. More personal. Like I’d personally insulted every achievement they represented.

“Oh my god.” My voice came out as a squeak. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

I dropped to my knees, trying to gather the fallen awards, my hands shaking. There had to be at least fifteen of them—“Best Holiday Campaign,” “Top Digital Innovation,” “Webby Award Winner.” Each one was probably super expensive.

“I didn’t mean to—I was just looking for—my bag caught and—”

“Stop.”

The voice came from behind the desk, and I looked up. The man standing there made my brain short-circuit like someone had dumped eggnog into my motherboard.

He was unfairly hot. Devastatingly hot. The kind of hot that made you forget words and basic motor functions.

Dark hair that looked like he’d been running his hands through it, sharp jawline, eyes so blue they should’ve come with a warning label.

He wore a charcoal sweater that fit him in ways that were probably illegal in twelve states, and his sleeves were pushed up to reveal forearms that had no business looking that good on a Tuesday morning.

This could not be happening.

“I’m so sorry,” I said again, clutching a crystal award that proclaimed him “Entrepreneur of the Year.” My voice was too high, too breathless. “I’ll put them all back exactly how they were, I promise. I was just looking for my desk, and I thought—”

“You thought you’d reorganize my awards?”

There was something in his tone I couldn’t quite read. Irritation? Amusement?

“No. God, no. I was looking for Shelby. She’s my boss. I’m new. Well, not new new—I’ve worked here for six months, but remotely, and then the email came yesterday, and I didn’t know where to go, and—”

“You’re rambling.”

“I know.” I took a breath, trying to center myself while kneeling on his floor, surrounded by the physical manifestation of his success that I’d just demolished. This was fine. This was totally fine. “I’m Gabriella. Gabriella Travers. I’m a copywriter.”

I held up the award I was still clutching like it was a peace offering. He moved around the desk, and I realized he was tall. Really tall.

He crouched down next to me, and suddenly we were eye level, and this was somehow worse because up close he was even more attractive, and I could smell his cologne—something woodsy and expensive that made my thoughts scatter like the glitter currently decorating the floor beneath me.

“Let me help.” He took the award from my hands, his fingers brushing mine for a brief second that sent an entirely inappropriate zing up my arm.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know where they go.”

Right. Because they were his awards. That I’d destroyed. The first time I met him.

We worked in silence for a moment, him methodically placing each award back on the credenza while I handed them to him like the world’s most incompetent assistant.

“I really am sorry,” I said, because apparently I was stuck in an apology loop. “I didn’t see them there, and my bag is too full because I didn’t know what I’d need today, and—”

“Gabriella Travers.” He said my name slowly, like he was testing it out. “The copywriter.”

“The only copywriter, apparently.” I tried for a smile, but it probably looked more like a grimace. “So if you’ve hated any of the campaign copy in the last six months, that was me. Sorry in advance.”

Something flickered across his face as he placed the last award back on the credenza—a Webby for “Best Branded Content Series.” He stood, and I scrambled to my feet, clutching my traitorous bag.

“I haven’t hated it,” he said, and there was something odd in his tone. “Your Christmas campaign for the Gingerbread and Gossip influencer was good. Strong hook, authentic voice.”

I blinked. “You…know my work?”

“I know all the work that goes out under this company’s name.”

Right. Of course. Because this was probably some senior VP or director who reviewed everything. Which meant I’d just made the worst possible first impression on someone important.

“Well, thank you,” I managed. “That campaign was fun to write.”

He studied me for a moment, and I became acutely aware of the tinsel in my hair and the way my Christmas sweater had ridden up during my floor gymnastics. There was also the fact that I was probably still shedding glitter with every breath.

“Shelby’s office is three doors down on the right,” he said finally. “She’ll get you set up.”

“Thank you.” I backed toward the door, this time giving the credenza a wide berth like it might attack me. “Again, I’m so sorry about the—” I gestured vaguely at the awards. “Everything.”

“Gabriella.”

I paused in the doorway, my heart doing something complicated in my chest.

“Welcome to the office.”

There was something in his expression I couldn’t quite read—amusement, maybe, or curiosity—but I didn’t stick around to analyze it. I fled down the hallway, my heels clicking frantically, glitter trailing behind me like evidence of my shame.

It wasn’t until I found Shelby’s office—empty, with a note saying she’d be back in twenty minutes—that I let myself collapse into a chair and properly process what had just happened.

I’d just made a complete fool of myself in front of the hottest man in the building.

On the bright side, I’d probably never have to see him again.

Senior management types didn’t exactly hang out with junior copywriters.

I could avoid that hallway, avoid that office, and pretend this morning never happened.

My phone buzzed with a text from my roommate Sutton. How’s the first day? Did you murder your boss yet?

I typed back, Worse. I destroyed some hot executive’s award display and had a full breakdown in front of him.

Her response was immediate. Tell me everything.

But before I could reply, the office door opened, and Shelby breezed in—red blazer, perfect makeup. She had the kind of effortless polish I could never quite achieve.

“Gabriella! Welcome, welcome!” She air-kissed near my cheek. “So sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. Eli called an emergency leadership meeting this morning, and you know how he is.”

“Eli, our founder and CEO?”

“The one and only. He’s the one who sent the return-to-office email.

Between you and me, I think someone pissed him off, because he’s being extra Grinchy about the whole thing.

” She lowered her voice conspiratorially.

“He’s brilliant, but god, the man has no holiday spirit whatsoever.

Anyway, he just texted me from his office—he wants the Q4 numbers before lunch, which means I need to—”

Suddenly, everything clicked into place.

He just texted me from his office.

His office. The corner office at the end of the hall. The one with the floor-to-ceiling windows and the credenza full of awards that I’d just—

No.

No, no, no.

“Shelby?” My voice came out strangled. “The corner office at the end of the hall. That’s…?”

“Eli’s office, yes. Why?” Shelby’s eyes widened. “Oh god, you didn’t go in there, did you? He hates being interrupted, especially with everything going on this week.”

I thought about the awards. The tinsel in my hair. The way he’d looked at me when I said my name.

The copywriter, he’d said. He’d known exactly who I was just by hearing my name. Because he was the CEO.

I’d just destroyed the CEO’s award display, babbled incoherently at him, and then fled like a tornado, leaving glitter and chaos in my wake.

“Gabriella?” Shelby’s voice sounded very far away. “Are you okay? You look pale.”

I wasn’t okay. I was the opposite of okay.

Because I’d just met my boss’s boss’s boss, and my first impression had been catastrophically, irredeemably terrible.

And I had to work here for three more days before I could flee to my parents’ house and hide under the covers until this nightmare faded into a distant, humiliating memory.

Merry fucking Christmas to me.