The Billionaire’s Bun In Her Oven - Ellie Rowe Page 0,17

in the face and told them to get the fuck out of my restaurant.

You don’t have a restaurant anymore, remember? I seethe. I’m so lost in my self-loathing that the next half hour flies by, and I’m suddenly pulling up to the gate of my parent’s estate.

I tap my card against the code reader and wince at the bright sunlight. I’m a little hungover, which only adds to my general feeling of dread. My mother’s voice is already piercing enough on its own. She’ll send my brain into spasms at my current state.

The gate creaks open and I fly down the driveway, bracing myself for the disapproval and disappointment. I hate that they were right. I hate that they said I would fail, and I did. And now I’m back. They were right about that, too.

As I slam the door shut, I start to seriously reconsider this plan. Why couldn’t I have laid low at Paulie’s for a couple days or something? Going home feels like admitting defeat. Yet, isn’t that where I am?

The front doors swing open, and my father waves at me politely, a genuine smile on his face, while my mother stands, one hand on her hip, and the other clutching Zsa Zsa, (her beloved toy poodle). As soon as she sees me, Zsa Zsa squirms until my mother is forced to release her.

Thank God for dogs. The great negotiators of peace! Her perfect little powder puff feet scamper toward me and I pick her up with a loving squeeze.

“You’ll teach her bad habits!” my mother warns.

“Hello to you, too,” I droll as I walk up the steps to greet them.

“Hi, Pumpkin,” my Dad smiles and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

“Hi, Daddy,” I smile wearily, and he gives me a sympathetic pat on the arm. “Mother.”

“Well, you might as well grab your things. I’ve fixed up your room for you. Your old room. I’ve always kept it, you know, just in case.”

Yup. This is going to be just as terrible as expected.

I step through the doors and into my childhood home. For some people, it’s open fields, and a little cottage, a farm or a cute suburban house. For me, it’s this. Luxury. An estate. A goddamn butler.

I try not to be embarrassed of my wealth, of my parent’s wealth; but all my life, it’s only given me bad press or implied negative things about me and my achievements. People find out your folks are rich, and they assume you had everything handed to you.

Old Connecticut money.

It’s one of the many reasons I wanted to get out and get away. My phone buzzes, but I try to ignore it. Probably another friend telling me the terrible news.

“I was thinking of having Kyle around for tea, he’ll be so delighted you’re back with us —”

“No.” I say, a little too quickly. There’s my other reason.

“No, thanks. I’m just… I’d like to settle in, if that’s alright.”

My mother gives me an arched eyebrow before tutting and turning back around.

I’ve never told her the truth about Kyle, or about why we ended things. He had threatened that something bad would happen if I ruined his reputation. I hate hearing that he’s still somehow in communication with my parents.

“She’s a little on edge,” my Dad whispers as he takes Zsa Zsa from my arms. “But she’s happy you’re home. For good.”

“Not for good.” I say sharply and my father holds his hand up in surrender. “I think,” I add tiredly. The truth is, I don’t know how long I’ll be here. My phone buzzes again and my heart leaps for a second wondering if it’s Stephen.

“Well, Darling, you’re always welcome here. You know, your mother and I have always told you that your place is here. With us.”

“And with our kind of people,” my mother chimes in, her arms crossed. “We tried to warn you, Darling. If you hadn’t been so damned impertinent —

“Claudia,” my father warns.

“If you hadn’t dreamed so much!” she scoffs, “none of this would have happened!”

My phone buzzes insistently and I whip it out of my pocket, feeling like a petulant child.

It’s Paulie. I can hear my mother blathering on about how rude people are with their phones these days, but my eyes are glued to the screen.

Big news, it reads. Call me.

Fourteen

Stephen

“I don’t know, Stephen, what’s the big deal?” Rachna Prasad asks me.

I’m sitting in her corner office overlooking Central Park, which is across the network’s office. Rachna is short in stature but big