Chapter 20 #3
My eyes land on one of his crisp white button-downs. I grab it, throw it on. It’s huge, swallows me whole, but it does the job. Covers the important bits. Smells like him, which is both comforting and distracting, because goddammit I already feel my thighs remembering last night.
I step out into the hallway, into the penthouse proper, and—holy shit.
I freeze.
Because this isn’t a home. It’s a fucking power statement with walls. Massive open concept, gleaming black marble, clean lines, sharp edges. A space designed by someone who’s never spilled a cup of coffee or cried into their pasta. And in the middle of it? Staff.
Like, people. Real, breathing, uniformed humans just…
going about their business. Setting out his breakfast like this is some scene out of a Bond villain’s Tuesday morning.
One of them gives me a polite nod like it’s normal that a barefoot, tousled woman in nothing but her maybe-boyfriend’s shirt is wandering the billionaire lair like she owns the place.
Jesus Christ.
He really is a fucking Vanderbilt.
The moment I step into the living room, barefoot, swimming in a crisp button-down that probably costs more than my monthly rent, I slam straight into reality. Or more precisely—billionaire reality.
There’s a staff. A full-on, real-life staff.
Not just someone dropping groceries or cleaning once a week.
No—this is morning briefing level shit. One guy’s in a chef’s coat, flipping eggs like he’s auditioning for a Michelin star.
Another is setting the table with linen napkins and crystal glasses like Alex is about to host the Queen of England for brunch.
My foot makes a little slap on the cold marble and everyone turns.
And I freeze. Like full-deer-in-the-Bentley-headlights freeze.
Oh. Oh no.
I clutch the shirt tighter around me, like that’ll make me invisible. Which is hilarious, considering this thing probably has his monogram embroidered on the damn cuff. I might as well have a blinking neon sign on my forehead: Just Fucked the Boss.
“Morning, Miss,” the chef says smoothly, like this isn’t the absolute walk-of-shame from billionaire heaven.
“Hi,” I croak, voice dry and clearly not meant for conversation at 8 a.m. in front of strangers who probably make more than me even in tips. “Uh. Carry on.”
Carry on? Jesus, what am I, a flight attendant?
I scurry toward the counter like I belong here. Like I’m not still dripping Alex’s cum and pretending to be dignified. Grab a glass of water I don’t need just to do something with my hands.
“Would you like breakfast, Miss Atkins?” the chef asks, cool as ever.
Fuck. He knows my name. They know my name.
I blink. “Did he—did Alex tell you my name?”
He gives me a sly, not-sly smile. “Mr. Vanderbilt made it very clear we’re to take care of you. Anything you need.”
I nearly choke on the water. Christ.
Anything I need? How about a time machine and a do-over for this morning?
I grip the counter, trying to find some part of myself that isn’t internally screaming. My thighs are still sore, my hair is sex-murdered, and I’m standing in a penthouse that smells like coffee, money, and the man currently passed out naked in bed after fucking me like a goddamn war crime.
I mean… what the fuck even is my life?
I let out a slow, strangled breath and mutter to no one in particular, “I was just a nurse with a subway pass and a vibrator two months ago.”
And now I’m here.
In Alex Vanderbilt’s shirt.
In his damn empire.
God help me.
I grab a glass of water—already chilled, because of course—courtesy of one of the terrifyingly efficient staff members who ghosted away right after.
I take a long gulp, trying to hydrate the absolutely ravaged mess that is my body, and watch as they finish setting up a breakfast that looks like it was curated by a Michelin chef with a God complex.
Freshly baked croissants, artisanal preserves, poached eggs, avocado arranged like fine art, and some fresh-squeezed orange juice in a glass carafe that probably costs more than my monthly MetroCard refill.
Then just like that—poof. Staff disappears like mist in the wind.
Now it’s just me.
Standing barefoot in a man’s penthouse kitchen, wearing his stupidly soft white button-down, with my thighs still sore from being fucked within an inch of my afterlife, surrounded by wealth so loud it’s practically screaming you don’t belong here.
And I don’t. I really fucking don’t.
Because all this time—while I was meal-prepping in a busted microwave and fighting for three hours of sleep between ER shifts—Alex was literally trying not to get murdered by his own father and corporate goons, ghosting security, plotting revenge, breaking up with a socialite bride-to-be,
and overthrowing the goddamn Vanderbilt Conglomerate like he was in a prestige TV drama.
And then he came back to me.
Me.
Carol fucking Atkins. Registered nurse. Owner of three bras, none of which match my underwear. Currently renting a shoebox in Queens where the hot water works only if you curse at it first.
I stare at the fancy breakfast. At this ridiculous kitchen. At the silk shirt barely covering my post-coital soul.
And all I can think is—
What the fuck do I even do with this?