MY EX-WIFE IS A BILLIONAIRE

Not just a guest

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" Nicholas asked, his voice low and controlled, far more unsettling than shouting would have been. Beatrice sniffled, tears tracking down her cheeks, as the manager rushed forward, bowing slightly.

"Monsieur Martinez, forgive us. This girl is new. Such clumsiness is not our standard…”

Beatrice kept her head bowed, gathering shards of glass with shaking fingers, silently praying the floor would simply open and swallow her whole.

"Stand up," Nicholas said sharply. "Do not grovel like that." Her body went rigid, but she rose slowly, unable to lift her eyes, her apron stained and her hands sticky with spilled wine.

He studied her for a long moment, jaw tight, brushing absently at his ruined suit. Then, almost against his will, his gaze lifted to meet hers, and something in him went still.

He forgot his anger entirely. He forgot the suit. All he could see were her tear-brimmed eyes, fragile and radiant at once, her lashes damp, her cheeks flushed, a woman who looked like a painting ruined by accident and somehow more striking for it.

For a moment, Nicholas Martinez, a man who never let emotion sway him, felt something he hadn't felt in years. Beatrice's heart raced under the weight of his gaze, as though he could see straight through to whatever she was trying to hide. She dropped her eyes first. "I'm sorry, Monsieur Martinez. It was my fault. I bumped into you. I didn't mean it…"

"Enough," the manager cut in harshly, glaring at her. "You've embarrassed us enough for one day. Go clean yourself up." She flinched and bent to gather the last of the glass when Nicholas's voice stopped her cold.

"Wait."

The manager froze. "Monsieur?"

Nicholas's eyes never left her. "She doesn't need to clean the floor. She needs to clean herself up first. Get someone else for the glass."

Beatrice blinked in surprise as he bent down, retrieved a fallen napkin, and held it out to her. "Take it." Her fingers brushed his as she reached for it, a small spark she didn't expect. "I'll handle my suit," he said, his eyes steady on hers. "You should take care of yourself."

The manager's mouth fell open. "Monsieur Martinez, there's truly no need…” But Nicholas wasn't listening. His attention stayed fixed on her.

Beatrice swallowed hard, utterly confused by the shift in him, fury one moment, something unreadable and almost gentle the next. She stepped back, clutching the napkin. "Thank you, Monsieur Martinez."

He gave a short laugh. "You sound far too formal. Just call me Nicholas."

She managed a small nod before he straightened, tugged at his stained jacket, and walked toward the private lounge, his friends murmuring and exchanging curious glances behind him. Beatrice stood frozen for a moment longer, her heart pounding, before turning toward the staff corridor.

In the staff restroom, she shut the door and leaned against the sink, breath ragged. Her reflection stared back at her, disheveled, cheeks stained pink, hair falling loose from its bun, her apron and the hem of her dress soaked through with wine.

"What have I done," she whispered, pressing both hands to her face. She pulled tissues from the box and scrubbed at the stains on her dress, but the deep burgundy refused to budge, spreading further the harder she tried.

She caught her own gaze in the mirror, wide brown eyes brimming with tears, and thought she looked like a child caught breaking something precious. It wasn't only embarrassment sitting in her chest. It was confusion. She kept replaying the moment Nicholas's fury had melted into something gentler, the napkin in his outstretched hand. "Why would a man like him even spare me a glance," she murmured.

She shook the thought away, damp curls brushing her cheeks. "Don't think about it, Bea. Just finish the shift and pray you still have a job."

She splashed water on her face, dabbed it dry, and straightened her dress as best she could before stepping back out to her station. She picked up a tray and began refilling champagne glasses, her hands steadier now even though her heart still raced.

It wasn't long before the manager appeared again, his sharp shoes clicking against the floor. "There you are," he hissed, pulling her aside, his French accent sharpening every word. "Do you understand what you've done? That man you drenched in wine wasn't a guest. That was Nicholas Martinez. Our employer."

Her stomach dropped as he continued, voice low and furious. "He is the sole owner of Le Château Noir. This entire establishment exists because of him. And you embarrassed him in front of everyone. Do you understand what that could mean, for you, and for us?"

"I didn't know," she stammered. "I'm so sorry. It won't happen again, I promise."

"Sorry?" He laughed dryly. "Sorry doesn't erase stains from a ten-thousand-euro suit. Sorry doesn't undo humiliation."

She gripped her tray tighter, blinking back fresh tears. "Please, give me another chance. I need this job. I won't make another mistake."

He studied her for a long moment, clearly weighing something, when another waiter rushed up. "Monsieur!" the boy said breathlessly. "Monsieur Martinez, he's sent for her."

The tray nearly slipped from Beatrice's hands. The manager blinked. "What did you say?"

"He asked for her specifically. He wants the same girl from earlier to serve him. No one else." The manager's jaw tightened as he turned back to Beatrice.

Her chest rose and fell quickly. Nicholas Martinez wants me? She shook her head, trying to steady her breath, as the manager exhaled sharply and straightened his jacket.

"D'accord. Go," he said. "This time, do not falter. If you embarrass us once more, I will throw you out myself."

"Yes, monsieur," she said quickly, setting down the tray and wiping her damp palms against her apron. She drew in a shaky breath and carried a fresh tray toward the private lounge where Nicholas had retreated, her heartbeat thundering louder with every step she took toward that door.