The Billionaire's Runaway Nurse

6

"Are you done?" Mrs. Green’s voice broke through the thick silence, her soft footsteps padding closer to me.

"Yes. Almost," I replied, tossing the last few clothes into the dryer with a snap of metal on metal, the machine clunking to life as I closed the door.

"You should eat your breakfast while the clothes are drying," she said, her concern palpable. Her eyes, soft and honey-brown, were filled with the kind of worry you’d expect from someone who cared far more than they should for someone in my position. A maid in a billionaire’s house. What can she do, really? I can see the sympathy hovering at the edge of her gaze, that aching need to help, but bound by her role in this enormous house.

And God, how must she feel living with that man? That jerk. He walks around here, so sure of himself, chest puffed out like he owns the world. Well, I guess he practically does, considering how young he was when he made his first billion. That kind of success would make anyone feel invincible. He’s nothing like my dad, though. My dad burns money, wastes it on ridiculous indulgences, but this guy—he just throws it around to get under people's skin. Seventy million. That's what he spent. Seventy million dollars on me.

I still can’t wrap my head around it. Who spends that much money just to irritate someone? And here I am, his little pawn, being made to do household chores. It’s absurd. As if this is worth even a fraction of that amount. And yet, part of me—God, I hate admitting this—part of me finds it... amusing. There’s something oddly satisfying about the way he pisses off my dad. My father, always in control, always commanding the room, has no power here. That makes me smile.

The thought flickers, a seed of something darker taking root. I could do that too. I could make my dad feel just as helpless. I’ll wait for Liam to graduate—then I’ll disappear. Vanish from my father’s life completely, leaving nothing behind but the echoes of his mistakes. He’ll regret everything. Oh, how he’ll regret it.

"Mia!" Mrs. Green’s voice dragged me back to reality. I blinked, trying to shake off the dark cloud in my mind.

"Yes?"

"I called your name a few times. What were you thinking about?" Her concern deepened, the lines around her eyes softening as she looked at me.

"Nothing. Sorry," I muttered. "What did you say?"

"Come on, let's have breakfast," she repeated, motioning for me to follow her.

I trailed behind her toward the dining room. I wasn’t hungry, not after everything that had happened. But I needed the energy. There’s no way I can escape from here without it. The smell of fresh coffee and toast met us as we entered the room. And there he was. Mr. Jerk himself, seated at the dining table with his laptop open in front of him, fingers flying over the keyboard.

What is he even doing here? Doesn’t he have some multi-million-dollar business to run? For someone with the title of "number one businessman," he sure seems to have a lot of free time.

"Sit here. I’ll bring your breakfast," Mrs. Green said, offering me a kind smile as she disappeared into the kitchen.

"I can help," I offered, desperate for any excuse not to be alone with him.

"Excuse me?" His voice sliced through the air like a whip. I turned to find him glaring at me over the top of his screen.

"I told you not to enter the kitchen," he said, his eyes narrowing with the kind of condescension that made my skin crawl.

Mrs. Green returned, stepping in to defuse the situation. "It’s fine. Sit here. I’ll get your food." Her voice was gentle, but her eyes flashed something like frustration. She shot him a look, but he didn’t seem to care. He just went back to typing.

I slid into my chair, my stomach twisting. Despite everything, there was no denying it. He was... handsome. Infuriatingly so. There was something about the way his dark hair fell just a little too perfectly across his forehead, how his jaw was sharply defined and yet softened when he wasn’t scowling at me. But his looks didn’t matter. He was a complete jerk. Although... oddly enough, not to anyone else.

The other maids were practically in love with him. They couldn’t stop talking about how kind he was, how generous. They didn’t see how he treated me. Of course they didn’t. Maybe if they did, they’d still fall over themselves to praise him. A young, single billionaire—handsome, wealthy, mysterious. It all adds up to some kind of fantasy, doesn’t it? It makes me sick.

Then again, if he weren’t such a jerk... maybe I’d be just as enamored.

"Is he single?" I found myself wondering, before quickly pushing the thought away. Of course, he has a girlfriend. Someone like him always does. I wondered briefly what she’d think of me. Of all this. What would she say, knowing he spent seventy million dollars just to buy me out of spite, as part of some twisted business rivalry? I’d be furious if I were her.

But then again, I wouldn’t know what it’s like to have a boyfriend. My dad wouldn’t allow it. If he even thought I was seeing someone, he’d lose his mind. He’d lock me away, somewhere dark and out of reach. Just like he’s always done.

"Mia, why are you still standing?" Mrs. Green's voice snapped me out of my thoughts again. She had returned with a tray, balancing it carefully in her hands.

"I was waiting for you," I said, quickly helping her set the table. I could feel him watching me, his eyes burning holes into the back of my head. Was he going to sit here with me? I hated the idea. I’d rather eat in my dusty, miserable little room.

"Sit," Mrs. Green instructed, placing a plate of sandwiches and boiled eggs in front of me.

"No." His voice cut across the room like a sharp wind.

Both Mrs. Green and I turned toward him in confusion.

"This girl doesn’t sit at my table," he said, shaking his head like he was doing me a favor by even explaining it.

I didn’t want to sit there anyway.

"Where should she eat then?" Mrs. Green asked, her voice tinged with anger. "Shall I take her to the servants’ quarters?"

"She can sit on the floor," he replied casually, shrugging as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Bryan!" Mrs. Green’s shock was palpable, her voice trembling with restrained outrage.

I forced a smile, trying to smooth things over. "It’s fine. I don’t mind."

I did mind, of course. But what was the point of arguing? He was determined to humiliate me. And I had grown used to humiliation, hadn’t I? Years of enduring my father’s cruelty had taught me patience. If anything, I could outlast this. And if I could, I would win in the end.

He glanced up from his laptop, his eyes locking onto mine. For a second, he just stared. Then, with a smirk, he said, "On second thought, she can eat while standing."

Mrs. Green’s outrage deepened. "Now you’re being unreasonable."

"It’s fine," I said, picking up my plate. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his words stung. Instead, I stood and began to eat, forcing each bite down as if it were nothing.

He didn’t say anything after that, just watched, an amused gleam in his eye. He even took a picture of me, his phone clicking as he captured my humiliation. No doubt he’d send that to my father, another little victory in their ridiculous war.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of cleaning and dusting. The house was spotless to begin with, so it wasn’t as though the work was difficult. It was almost meditative, giving me time to think, to plot. I could almost see the way out, the escape route forming in my mind. But, of course, he wouldn’t let me have a moment’s peace. Every so often, he’d appear, offering some sarcastic remark, snapping pictures of me as I worked.

"You missed a spot," he’d say, pointing to some imaginary speck of dust.

"This isn’t clean enough. Do it again."

And yet, I noticed something had changed. He didn’t call me "filth" anymore. That had been his favorite word when I first arrived. Filth. But after Mrs. Green pointed out my name, he seemed to stop. Now he just called me "you." It was still degrading, but I supposed it was a slight improvement.

Mrs. Green came up to me while I was cleaning the hallway. "You look so used to doing household chores," she said, a small smile on her lips.

"I used to do them all myself," I replied, wiping down a dusty painting.

"Aren’t you the daughter of a wealthy businessman?" she asked, clearly confused.

I hesitated. "My father didn’t let the maids help with our daily chores. We had to do them ourselves—except for the dusting and cooking." I trailed off, unsure if I should say more. Should I tell her about my dust allergy? Would she tell him? Would he use it against me?

I forced a smile. "I just prefer doing things myself."

She smiled back, though I could tell she was still puzzled.