Claimed by the cold billionaire

As I opened the door barefoot with cracked feet and $89k debt in my hand, the billionaire CEO said: "You forgot your shoes. Good." I froze. The man standing in front of me was not supposed to be home. Mr. Ethan Blackwood. The owner of this $40 million mansion in the hills. My new boss. The man the agency warned me about. "Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't look him in the eye. And never, ever be barefoot in his house." And I was doing all three. My name is Ella Monroe. I'm twenty-three. And until ten minutes ago, I was just a girl who needed a job to pay for my mother's hospital bills. The debt paper in my hand was shaking. $89,432. That's what the hospital said we owed by Friday. Or they would stop my mother's treatment. I had $12 in my bank account. The agency said the Blackwood Mansion paid $4,000 a week for a live-in housekeeper. It was insane money. It was my only chance. But now I was standing barefoot on his Italian marble floor, my cheap dress wet from the rain, my old shoes in a plastic bag because they had a hole and I didn't want to dirty his floor. And he was staring at my feet. Ethan Blackwood was taller than I imagined. In the photo the agency showed me, he looked cold. In person, he was freezing. Black suit, black shirt, no tie. Hair perfectly done. Eyes like ice. He was maybe thirty. And he looked at me like I was a stain on his perfect house. "You must be the new girl," he said, his voice low and calm. Too calm. "Ella Monroe," I whispered. "The agency sent me. I - I'm sorry about the shoes. It was raining and my shoes were-" "I said good." I blinked. "What?" He took a step closer. I could smell his cologne. Expensive. Everything about him was expensive. "You forgot your shoes. Good," he repeated. "I don't allow outside dirt in this house. You will be barefoot inside. Always." I stared at him. Always barefoot? "Is that a problem, Miss Monroe?" He tilted his head. "No, sir," I said quickly. He looked down at the paper in my hand. The debt notice. I tried to hide it behind my back but he was too fast. He took it from my fingers. I wanted to die. He read it. One second. Two seconds. His face didn't change. "$89k," he said. "It's not - it's my mother -" "I don't care," he cut me off. He folded the paper and put it in his pocket. "You will start today. Your room is downstairs. You will cook, clean, and you will not enter the second floor after 8 PM. Understood?" "Yes, sir." "And Ella." "Yes?" "If you cry in my house, do it quietly." He walked past me, and I swear the air got cold. That was my first day. I should have quit. But I didn't have anywhere to go. I spent the day cleaning a house that was already perfect. Ten bedrooms, twelve bathrooms, a kitchen bigger than my entire old apartment. I mopped floors that shone like glass. I was barefoot the whole time, just like he said. My feet were cracked from years of wearing cheap shoes and working double shifts at the diner. I was embarrassed for him to see them. But he didn't look again. At 7 PM, I was in the kitchen making dinner like the agency instructed. Simple food. Pasta. I couldn't afford to eat today, so my hands were shaking a little. Then I heard his voice behind me. "You're not eating." I jumped and dropped the spoon. "I - I ate before, sir." He looked at the empty trash can. The empty fridge shelf I had left empty because I didn't think I was allowed to eat his food. He opened the fridge, took out steak, bread, fruit, and put it on the counter in front of me. "Eat," he said. It wasn't a request. "I can't -" "Eat, or you're fired." I ate. It was the best food I had in months. I tried not to cry while I ate. I remembered his rule - cry quietly. He sat at the huge dining table and watched me. Not creepy. Just... watching. Like he was studying something he didn't understand. "How old are you?" he asked. "Twenty-three." "And $89k in debt at twenty-three." "It's my mom's hospital -" "I said I don't care about your story," he said, but his voice was softer now. "I care if you can work." "I can work. I will work very hard, Mr. Blackwood. I promise." He stood up. He came close again. He looked down at my bare feet on his cold floor. My cracked heels, my chipped nail polish. For a second, I thought he would say something cruel. Instead, he said, "Tomorrow, someone will come to fix your feet." "What?" "Pedicure. For feet." "A pedicure?" "Yes. That." I stared at him. "You don't have to -" "I know what I have to do," he said coldly, and the soft moment was gone. "Be up at 5 AM. Don't be barefoot outside. Only inside." He left. I stood alone in his giant kitchen, barefoot, full for the first time in days, with $89k debt in his pocket, and I didn't know that the man who just ordered a pedicure for his housekeeper was worth $4.2 billion. And I had no idea he had never allowed any woman to stay in this house before.