The Glass Slipper (Cinderella 3)

A buzz from my phone has me tugging it out of my handbag. It’s the unknown number again. I open it to discover Tate has been texting me. After saving his name, I read through his texts.

Tate: Catching up sounds great!

Tate: Holy shit, Ash, what happened? You’re all over the news. Are you okay?

Tate: I’m really worried about you. Call me.

Tate: At least let me know you’re alive and not dead in your bathtub.

I chew on my lip to keep my emotions at bay. I said no tears and, dammit, I don’t plan on crying today.

Me: Lunch today?

Tate: She lives! Yes. One of our old haunts?

Me: I miss that gyro place we used to eat at all the time. Noon?

Tate: See you then. Be careful.

Me: I will. Promise.

My thoughts of lunch scatter like leaves on a windy day the second I take in the wild zoo that is Halcyon. Hundreds of people are crowded around the entrance of the building. Security is trying to keep them behind some barriers that have been set up. News vans litter the street and the media is all waiting expectantly with their cameras.

“Wanna go sightseeing instead, Danny Boy?”

He chuckles from the front seat. “I don’t know that my boss would appreciate that.”

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” I tease and then let out a heavy sigh before shoving my phone back into my handbag. “If I die from mortification, it was nice knowing you. You were my favorite driver. Tell Win I said so. Maybe he’ll give you a raise.”

Daniel pulls up in front of the building, earning the attention of the crowd. Cameras start flashing as they mob their way over to the Mercedes. “Can’t avoid it now, Miss Elliott. Go on. Get it over with. I imagine you’ll survive just fine.”

His vote of confidence has me nodding sharply. “You’re right. We got this. But, if you want to run over a few reporters on your way out of here, I won’t blame you. In fact, I’ll send you a tin of homemade cookies at Christmas.”

“Goodbye, Miss Elliott.”

I groan but face the inevitable.

The consequences of my actions.

Pushing open the door, I try not to flash the fray of people my red thong and scoot out of the car, handbag in my clammy grip. As I rise to my feet, my ponytail swoops behind me and my dress dances in a dainty way around my thighs.

I’m hit with a barrage of questions and demands all at once. The flashing bulbs are blinding. The voices are a roar. I ignore it all, head held high, as I strut my way through the cleared area the security officers made.

Someone screams that I’m a gold-digger. The comment strikes me but I don’t flinch. Instead, I pretend that my boss-slash-lover didn’t spend thousands on this outfit. I try to imagine that I’m someone who fits in Win’s world. Someone like a Meredith or Manda, but like the sexier, nicer, smarter version.

I manage to make it into the lobby unscathed. The tremble in my hands is slight but as I ride the elevator on the long way up, I calm the tremors and straighten my spine. There’s no telling what I’m about to walk into. Regardless, I have to. The only way to the other side is through this mess. There’s no getting around it now.

Once the elevator dings to deposit me on the correct floor, I affix my coolest expression despite the nerves buzzing beneath my skin. The lobby falls quiet as several heads turn my way. Each one of the executive assistants seems to turn at once like little robots. Win probably trained them that way. The thought makes a smirk tease at my lips.

I’ve got this.

Everyone can go to hell.

Win and I fucked. We’re freaks. Get over it.

The whispers start as I clack past each assistant on a mission to Winston’s office where the door is closed. As I approach, Deborah rises to her feet as though she’s going to prevent me from going in to see him.

She does not want to get in my way.

My icy glare must convey that message because she visibly flinches. Good. I keep walking and push into his office, ignoring how she rushes behind me.

Seeing him behind his desk rippling with masculine authority is a match to the lust that’s ever present whenever I see this man. I’m immediately drawn to the perfection that is his golden-blond hair, styled in a manner that could sell magazines if he were on the cover. His sharp jaw seems more defined than ever and his full lips are pressed into a cruel slant. God, he’s so freaking fine. The suit he’s wearing is killer—navy blue and expensive. Seems we both had the same idea this morning. Dress as though we have world domination on the first item of our agenda.