MY EX-WIFE IS A BILLIONAIRE

First day

The next morning, Beatrice woke early to the sight of the narrow street stretching out beyond the window. Ava slept soundly beside her, and Beatrice paused just long enough to kiss her temple before sitting at the edge of the bed, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her dress.

Today was her first day at Le Château Noir, and nerves coiled tight in her stomach. Nancy's voice broke through her thoughts. "Bea, are you ready?"

"Yes, I think so," she said, forcing a steady breath. She studied herself in the mirror, tucking a loose strand of chestnut hair behind her ear, and dressed in a navy skirt with a white collar, simple, professional, nothing that drew attention. That was exactly what she wanted.

She wanted to do her job quietly and build the best life she could for her daughter. Her heart raced anyway as she walked into the kitchen, where Nancy was spooning scrambled eggs onto a plate. By the time breakfast was ready, Ava had woken too, her dark curls a mess and her hazel eyes bright as she swung her legs from the chair, clutching a piece of toast.

"Mommy," Ava grinned, scattering crumbs across the table, "you look pretty!" Beatrice bent to kiss her forehead. "Thank you, my love. Will you be good for Aunt Nancy today?"

"Yes! She said we'll get ice cream after school," Ava said eagerly. Beatrice glanced at Nancy with a small laugh. "You spoil her."

"Someone has to," Nancy said with a wink, resting a hand on Beatrice's shoulder. "Don't worry. She's in good hands. Go on, you'll do great."

Beatrice kissed Ava once more, grabbed her handbag, and stepped out into the morning. A short taxi ride later, she arrived at the hotel, and the sight of it nearly stole her breath all over again. Le Château Noir. The name alone sounded grand, but the building surpassed it entirely, black marble doors trimmed in gold opening onto a lobby so polished it looked mirrored.

Chandeliers sparkled overhead, classical music drifting faintly through the lobby. She made her way nervously toward the main lounge, the air rich with the scent of wine, roasted meat, and fresh pasta. The lounge itself was vast and opulent, the kind of room where politicians, business tycoons, and visiting royalty came to dine. For one fleeting second, she imagined herself eating there with her family someday.

"Excuse me, mademoiselle?" a voice called. She turned to find a man she recognized as the manager. "You are Beatrice Morgan, oui?"

"Yes," she said quickly, managing a smile.

"Follow me."

She trailed after him, her palms damp against her bag as she felt the weight of eyes on her while she crossed the lounge. He led her through a hallway lined with velvet drapes and into the main dining area, even grander than the lobby, golden sconces lining the walls, crystal glasses set on every table, servers moving in crisp, practiced uniforms.

"You begin today," he said, handing her a black apron. "Observe first. You will carry trays. Do not stumble. Our guests do not tolerate mistakes."

Beatrice nodded, her throat dry, and followed him toward the kitchen. "You may start now," he said, gesturing her forward.

She shadowed the other waitresses, studying the effortless way they balanced trays, the polite distance they kept in every conversation. She imitated their movements as best she could, carrying plates of smoked salmon, caviar, roasted lamb, and bottles of red wine into the dining hall.

Every time she passed a table, she felt eyes on her, men in tailored suits speaking in low voices, women dripping in jewels and sipping champagne. By afternoon, her legs ached and her palms had grown sore from gripping trays, but she hadn't made a single mistake. Not yet.

She returned to the kitchen and lifted another tray, a heavy one this time, glasses of red wine balanced beside two plates of duck confit. It wobbled slightly in her grip before she steadied it and started across the floor toward a corner table where a group of men in dark suits sat in easy conversation.

They were unmistakably billionaires, the kind that filled magazine covers, their laughter rich and unhurried, their watches catching the chandelier light. Her heart quickened. She drew a slow breath and took another careful step.

Then someone brushed past her. The tray tilted. The glasses slid.

"No!" she gasped, lunging to save them, but it was already too late. Wine and food spilled across the marble floor and splashed over a pair of polished shoes, staining a perfectly tailored suit in deep red.

The room seemed to freeze around her. "Mon Dieu!" The manager's voice cracked through the silence as he stormed toward her. "What have you done?"

Her knees buckled as every eye in the room turned toward her. She dropped instantly, fumbling to gather the broken glass, her cheeks burning with a shame so total she couldn't lift her head.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, hands trembling. "I'm so sorry. This will never happen again." The manager only smirked. "Of course it won't. You're fired."

She looked up, tears spilling freely now, and reached for his hands in desperation, but he pulled away before she could speak. Her gaze drifted instead to the man in the ruined suit, and her stomach dropped straight through the floor.

It was Nicholas Martinez. The same Nicholas Martinez she had seen in magazine after magazine for years, standing close enough now that she could see the fury simmering behind his eyes.