Page 45 of Her Filthy Cold Billionaire Boss

She listened for a while, head pressed to the cold glass as the rain turned the world into blurry hazes. "Yeah. He's still a grump. But he's not as scary as he thinks he is."

I turned away, embarrassed by how much I wanted to listen.

When she hung up, she tucked the phone away and looked at me. "Sorry about that." she said, teasing.

"Never apologize," I said, unsure if I was training her for management or to be mine.

She stretched out, arms above her head, and let out a sound halfway between a sigh and a groan. "Do you ever just want to set the whole place on fire and start over?"

"Every day," I said.

She grinned. "We could, you know."

"I'd miss the wine cellar."

She laughed, then lapsed into silence. For a long time, we just sat there, her in the window, me in an antique chair threatening to fall apart, the attic around us buzzing with the ghosts of a hundred years.

Eventually, she stood and crossed to me. She brushed a strand of hair from my forehead, fingers light as breath.

"You don't have to keep all of it," she said. "Some things, you can let go."

I stared at her, helpless.

Why couldn’t I tell her the truth, that I didn’t think I could let go of her?

And we sat, her listening to stories of my tyrannical upbringing, making cute comments about how she understood why I was the way I was based on that info. But it was easy to talk to her, comfortable in a way I should have been on guard for, but I wasn’t.

When we finally left the attic together, I realized I didn’t want to have to pretend we weren’t what we were. For the first time in a long while, I felt like maybe the past didn't own me after all. She reminded me about work and walked off, steps light, smile bright, and I watched her go.

Then I pretended to work until dark, but really, I thought of her. Every aspect of her. Her words that left me feeling free of the weight of the past. The way she made me think about my future, not just money, but my actual future.

That night, I prowled the halls, seeking out the whispers I knew were circling.

The house was hushed, as if holding its breath, the only light the dim glow of sconces and the flicker from the kitchen at the far end of the wing. And the thought of climbing into my bed alone, sheets still smelling faintly of her, made my skin crawl.

I drifted past the doors to the kitchen and heard voices. I should have kept moving. I should have let the staff have their secrets, let them believe I was asleep and oblivious. But the sound of Eden’s name, sharp, sweet, edged with laughter, caught me and held me fast.

I slowed, quiet as a ghost, and listened.

Maribel: “I’m telling you, it’s only a matter of time. That girl has him wrapped, and not just around her finger.”

One of the juniors, maybe the pastry sous, laughed. “Is there an official betting pool, or do we just put our guesses in a tip jar?”

Maribel again, voice giddy: “It’s not a bet, it’s a foregone conclusion. You should have seen him this morning. Smiled at her. Like, a real smile. I thought he was having a stroke.”

A third voice, wry and nasal: “You think he’ll break the contract, or just rewrite it for her?”

“Rewrite,” Maribel said. “He can’t help himself. She’s the only person I’ve ever seen who could talk back to him and live to tell about it.”

She wasn’t wrong.

There was a pause, a shuffling of cups, a pop as someone opened a can of seltzer. I heard the tap of Maribel’s rings on the countertop, a nervous clinking that made me think there was more.

“Good for him,” she said, softer. “He needed someone. I just didn’t think he’d ever let himself.”

There were murmurs of agreement, then the conversation drifted to the menu for the weekend and who was covering the Friday breakfast shift. I let myself move on, pulse hammering.

The words chased me down the hall.