by Laurie Gene
The Billionaire's Masquerade
A Sweet Cinderella Retelling
Laurie Gene
Copyright © 2020 by Laurie Gene
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Contents
1. Chapter 1: Nick
2. Chapter 2: Abby
3. Chapter 3: Nick
4. Chapter 4: Abby
5. Chapter 5: Nick
6. Chapter 6: Abby
7. Chapter 7: Nick
8. Chapter 8: Abby
9. Chapter 9: Nick
10. Chapter 10: Abby
11. Chapter 11: Nick
12. Chapter 12: Abby
13. Chapter 13: Nick
14. Chapter 14: Abby
15. Chapter 15: Nick
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Chapter 1: Nick
Nick did not dread anything more than talking to his fiancée on the phone.
"Well, darling, whatever you think is best," Nick answered dutifully, drumming his fingers on the surface of his desk. He let out a sigh but turned away from the receiver. The last thing he needed was Bonnie hearing him sigh and questioning whether the sound was directed at her or one of his employees.
The truth of the matter was, Nick was not as involved with the wedding and was surprisingly despondent about the whole thing. He had thought he would have much more of an opinion on his wedding—such as who in his family he actually wanted to invite—but as the big day drew closer, he became less and less enthused and more and more indifferent.
Perhaps that was to be expected. He was, after all, going to get married after being a wealthy bachelor for years. After pressure from his grandmother and his parents, he decided Bonnie had been around the longest and thought it would be best to settle down with her.
"I'm not sure, Nick, that's why I'm asking you," Bonnie said. He could hear the exasperation in her voice, probably well-deserved. Most of the time she talked about the wedding, he was ducking into the restroom to read articles on Yahoo! or checking his fantasy football team. "I really like the teal because it would bring out your eyes, but considering you decided we needed our wedding in autumn instead of spring or summer..." Her voice trailed off, and his eyes narrowed involuntarily.
"Bon, you know why we need to do it in autumn," he said, moving in his chair and picking up a pen. "Gran is old and I don't know how much longer she's going to last. I thought you'd love to have a short engagement."
"Your grandmother"—despite knowing his gran for three years, Bonnie refused to address her as such—"won't die for years, I guarantee it."
Nick couldn't be sure, but it sounded as though there was bitterness in her voice. He could be just exhausted after a long day, however. He had gotten up at three to join a conference with a tech team in China and hadn't been to bed since. There was a possibility he was hearing things.
"And as much as I love the thought of being Mrs. Davenport as soon as possible, it would be nice if I selected the season we're going to marry, Nick,” she continued. “Autumn is just so... blah for colors. I mean, I might have to dye my hair blonde again just to get a golden hue. Red is too bold and..."
Nick clicked the pen with his thumb, his eyelids becoming heavy.
At that moment, there was a gentle knock on his door and in stepped his executive assistant, Pamela Rhodes. She was as big as a bowling ball and waddled as though she carried one in her stomach.
Technically, he thought, she is.
Pamela Rhodes was nine months pregnant and about to burst at any second. Nick kept such phrases to himself because he learned the hard way that they weren't as funny as he assumed they were and pregnant women—especially those so close to their due dates—were filled with more anger than anyone he met and thought was possible. Either way, he was actually not looking forward to Friday, considering it was her last day and then she would be out of his life forever.
Perhaps he was being melodramatic.
The problem was, he had known Pamela for five years. Pamela knew him better than he knew himself and he wasn't sure how he was going to handle when she finally stepped down. She wasn't leaving just for a few months due to maternity leave. She was leaving this job so she could be a stay-at-home mom. That had been her dream since before she got married - having and raising children.
In truth, Nick was glad for her, but he wasn't sure what he was going to do. They had interviews lined up for Wednesday for potential replacements, but two days wasn't enough time to train someone—something Pamela continued to remind him of every day since she hit seven months.
"This is going to bite you in the ass," she told him.
And it had.
She placed a piece of paper in front of him.
"Anyway, what were we talking about?” Bonnie went on. “Oh, yeah. You didn't forget about this weekend, right?"
"This weekend?" Nick glanced up at Pamela, looking for any hint of what that could possibly mean. His heart hammered in his chest and his armpits perspired the way they did when his mom would catch him sneaking in the house at two-thirty in the morning and asked where he had been back when he was a teenager.
This was ridiculous. He was a grown man. He should not be afraid of his fiancée, even if she could be terrifying.
Pamela shot her eyes to the sky before nodding to the paper she’d placed on the surface of the desk.
"Wedding?" he asked out loud. "What we—"
"You remembered!" Bonnie exclaimed, a giddy giggle bubbling out of her like champagne. "Yes, the wedding we’re attending. Oh, I'm so glad to hear that, Nicky, because honestly, I swear, sometimes I think you don't pay attention to a word I'm saying."
Nick forced a laugh and Pamela bit her bottom lip to smother laughter.
"What?" he asked as Pamela retreated. He made a mental note to buy her flowers by Friday. She had saved him from a lot of fights with Bonnie. "Me, not listen to you? Why would I do a stupid thing like that?"
"I don't know," she said. "But, to be honest, Nick, some of your decisions haven't been the smartest. I'm just glad you know. Now, I got them a gift from both of us so don't worry about that."
Nick's eyes dropped down to the paper Pamela had set in front of him. Only then did he notice a receipt was taped to the bottom and a number was circled in red. Pamela had a way of silently indicating what was going on, but even so, he had still missed it.
"Two thousand forty-two dollars?" he yelped out loud. "What could you have possibly bought for that much money as a gift for a wedding that probably isn't going to last the next six months?"
"Nicolas Stafford, don't even think it's okay to speak to me in such a disrespectful tone," she snapped, her voice low. "I am going to be your wife and I refuse to allow you to treat me as though I'm as low as someone you don't even know on the street. Do you hear me?"
Nick clenched his teeth and sucked in a deep breath. He had one of two options at this point: he could either continue to fight with her, demand why she was spending his money without even asking him, tell her that from now on she would not have access to his finances, or he could put his tail between his legs and keep his mouth closed. When he was younger, he would have stood his ground. Now, though...
"You're whipped, boy." He heard his father's voice, clear as a bell, in his head. His father had passed three years ago. Now there was only Mom and Gran. "Be with a woman who makes you more of a man, not one who makes you a dog."
And yet, Nick didn't want confrontation. He didn't wa
nt to fight. He was already exhausted as it was because of work and he wasn't in the mood to deal with drama from the one person he was supposed to find solace in. He heaved a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes.
"Sorry," he forced out.
"Thank you," she said. It was like adding gasoline on a tampered fire. His nerves jumped, ready to react, but he tensed, straining himself from actually doing so. "Was that so hard? I swear, Nicky, is this job - you know, the one where we pick gifts out together - something you're able to handle? You always get so lippy with me."
"Actually," he cut in, the words falling out of his mouth before he could stop them. "I think it has to do with the fact that you spent over two grand on a wedding gift."
"Of course I did," she said as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Darling, we can't show up to their wedding with anything cheap. What do you think they're going to bring to our wedding?"
"I didn't realize we were getting gifts based on what we wanted," he muttered, leaning back in his chair.
"There's no need to say it like that," she said.
Pamela popped her head back in. This time, she wasn't alone. There was a young woman with her, dressed in a long-sleeved, white blouse and pressed slacks that clung to her curves without being too revealing. Her long strawberry blonde hair was clipped up and her face was highlighted with light makeup. On her feet were simple black ballet flats.
She seemed hesitant coming into his office, and Nick couldn't blame her. He wasn't sure how long she had been standing outside with Pamela, but if she’d heard his gruff impatience with the woman he was supposed to love, he would understand her caution.
Nick had a reputation in the business world—and the city. He was a cutthroat businessman, but he was fair. That was something he wanted to maintain throughout everything. Even if he was aggressive. Even if he was ruthless. It was still important to him to be fair. It was the way his father had done business and it was the way Nick did business as well.
The fact that he had been a single bachelor was also part of his reputation. He remembered before he chose to ask Bonnie to marry him, he would have a different woman every night, many of them models or starlets, singers or actresses. They were always beautiful and photographed well. Bonnie was one of the most beautiful women he had been with—a model turned budding fashion designer—and people constantly took pictures of her for the newspapers, which she loved.
"I have to go, Bon," Nick said, cutting her explanation of why her gift was so expensive. He didn't particularly care one way or the other anyway. It wasn't something he was going to get onboard with no matter what. "I have an interview I need to do."
"It's almost five o'clock!" she exclaimed. "Are you trying to get off the phone with me? Nick. Nick. Don't even think about hanging up on me!"
Nick did just that. He let out a sigh and then waved Pamela and this redhead in.
"Sorry to interrupt," Pamela said with a face that did not look like she was sorry at all. "You told me this morning to introduce you to the remaining candidates for my job. One never returned my calls. This is Abby Wilshire, the second applicant, and the third one—"
"You like Abby, here, for the job or the other one?" Nick asked, not taking his eyes off Abby. She was beautiful in an earthy way. Not obviously so, but striking.
"Both are comp—"
"Pamela." Nick held up a hand to cut her off. "Which one?"
"Abby, sir."
Nick smiled at Abby and extended his hand. "Well, Ms. Wilshire," he said. "It looks like you've got the job. You have no idea what you’re in for."
Chapter 2: Abby
Abby needed this job. She didn't like to think of herself as desperate, but she was desperate.
She squeezed the belt of her mother's old trench coat tighter around her waist and dodged foot traffic as best as she could. She’d lived here for years and still found herself wide-eyed and surprised at the sheer amount of people who populated the sidewalk.
It was probably because she wasn't originally from New York. After her mother died when she was seven, her father moved them out here so he could follow his dream of being a fiction publisher. The only reason he’d chosen to stay in Blackwater, Minnesota was because of Abby's mother. One of the main reasons he moved was to give them a fresh start.
Her shoulder rammed into someone.
"Hey, watch it, doll face," a grumpy voice said, but the man passed by so quickly she did not even get a chance to make out his face.
"Sorry," she called over her shoulder, but it drowned in a sea of honking and rush hour traffic.
Her father had managed to acquire a high-rise apartment just outside the city. Abby still had no idea how he was able to afford the thing, and she didn't think it was her place to ask. After he passed away a couple of years ago, her step-mother inherited it and Abby did not want to ask her. Abby didn't want to ask her anything if she could help it.
When she reached her building, the sun was already descending behind the skyscrapers and regular-sized buildings that made up the skyline. There was a strong golden hue that was almost blinding against the silver buildings, causing sparkles to ripple across the cool steel.
Foot traffic lessened the farther she got away from the city. Her face pinched with cold. Even though it was still very much summer, every now and then, an unexpected chill breezed through the air when the sun disappeared.
She nodded at her doorman as she stepped inside, and her muscles relaxed when the warmth from the heat of the building cradled her. She jabbed at the elevator button until the doors slid open. When she stepped inside, she hesitated. If there was anywhere else she could go, she would. For now, she was stuck here. With them.
That's not nice, Abs, her father's voice reminded her in her head as she finally, reluctantly, pressed her thumb against the plastic button that would take her up to the fourteenth floor. You're all they have left of me.
Abby scoffed and it took everything in her not to roll her eyes. She was nearly in her mid-twenties and she was being treated like she was a common help. Just because she wasn't blood didn't mean she was a stranger. If anyone owned the apartment, it was Abby.
"Stop it." She let out a shaky breath and released her fingers, bunched up from squeezing together into tight fists. "That isn't going to help."
The elevator chimed, indicating that she was on her floor. There were no other rooms in the penthouse. When she stepped out, she was just outside her home. She grabbed her keys from her purse—surprised to find them with minimal digging and no cursing whatsoever—and headed inside.
Trixie—stepsister number one—lounged on the chaise, reading a romance novel with her legs crossed and her feet planted on the cushion. She didn't even look up from the mass-produced paperback as Abby slid off her trench coat and hung it on the steel coat rack.
"Where have you been?" Saffron—stepsister number two—popped her head from the kitchen, Pippi Longstocking braids bouncing with her jerky movements. Heavy freckles filled her face. Her blue eyes narrowed as Abby walked into the lounge area. "You were supposed to be here an hour ago to cook us dinner."
"Today is Thursday," Abby said slowly. "We order Chinese."
"You order Chinese," Trixie pointed out, sitting up and dog-earring her page before placing it on the coffee table. "But today isn't Thursday. It's Wednesday. Wednesday, you cook."
Abby blinked. Was it really Wednesday? She pulled out her phone and blanched at the sight.
Wednesday.
"But you showed up late," Saffron continued, "so I'm assuming you brought home food, but judging by the fact that your hands are empty, you don't have anything." She leaned her lithe frame against the wall and gave Abby a look. "Well, Abs? What's it going to be? What's your plan?"
"My plan?" Abby asked. She was trying to think of one but was coming up blank. "I can order a pizza. It'll be here in twenty minutes, tops."
Both Trixie and Saffron made protesting sounds.
"I did no
t hear my dear stepdaughter suggest we order a pizza when we are all trying to keep an eye on our weight, did I?" The silky voice of Abby's stepmother, Angelica, filled the room like an overbearing perfume.
It wasn't long before she would be out in the lounge area as well, probably wrapped in her silky blue robe that clung to the weathered curves of a body she was still trying to keep young with injections and lotions rather than exercise.
"We can switch Chinese for the pizza, and I can cook tomorrow," Abby said. She shifted her weight, her eyes darting in the hall behind her stepmother, gently shutting her bedroom door as she came into view. She wanted nothing more than to dash down the hall and into her room and never look back.
"Chinese and pizza are not the same thing," Saffron said in protest.
"Saffron makes a good point," Angelica said, finally making her appearance in the living room. Her long black hair—recently dyed at a fancy salon on Long Island—was swept over one shoulder. "Chinese and pizza are two different things."
Abby bit her lip to keep a smart retort from coming out of her mouth. Of course Chinese and pizza weren't the same things. They were two types of food that clogged two different arteries in the heart.
"What would you prefer I do?" Abby asked.
"You could start by telling us what kept you," Saffron said. She arched a brow, her lips curling up just slightly into a smug grin Abby wished she could slap off.
Saffron was older than Abby by six months, but there were times she walked around as though she was her superior, her boss, someone to be listened to and respected. It was unfortunate that Abby felt none of those emotions for Saffron. If anything, Abby felt annoyed and frustrated but, more than anything, when it came to her stepsisters, she felt indifferent.