One Night with Cinderella - Niobia Bryant

One

March

“One day I hope I’m as rich as I look right now.”

Monica Darby turned this way and that in the full-length, wood-framed mirror leaning against the wall of the spacious walk-in closet. The bright crimson of the couture gown she held in front of her body was so different from the dark tones she normally wore. With her free hand, she gathered her ponytail atop her head and sucked in her cheeks as she struck a dramatic model-like pose.

She felt like a little girl playing dress-up.

In the reflection, she caught sight of the price tag dangling from the sleeve. She checked it, not surprised to see it cost nearly a fourth of her annual salary. It was one of five extravagant garments delivered that morning. Each more glamorous and decadent than the last.

Monica imagined what it would be like to own such beautiful clothing, live in a luxurious home and jet all over the world at a whim.

Only in my dreams.

She reached up to hang the dress among the other expensive gowns, fearing being caught having a brief moment of folly into a lifestyle in which she lived on the fringe as the housekeeper to the powerful Cress family—a position she cherished because, in their home, she had found the stability she lacked growing up in foster care. With one last glance back at the closet to ensure it was pristine and in order, she turned and left the space, closing the French doors behind her.

Her sneaker-covered feet barely made any noise against the herringbone pattern of the polished hardwood floors as she crossed the suite to retrieve the caddie of her cleaning supplies. “Eight suites down and the kitchen to go,” Monica said to herself before leaving the room and entering the spacious den that centered the top-floor hall of the five-story town house in the prominent and historic Lenox Hill section of Manhattan’s Upper East Side.

The ten-thousand-square-foot home was quiet as she made her way to the elevator. She was the only in-house staff. The chef was out shopping, and all of the Cress family members were gone for the day. She had the peace she needed to clean without intrusion.

When the lift came to a stop, she opened the wrought-iron gate and stepped on, pulling the rolling caddie behind her before pressing the button for the finished basement level, where the items not sent out for dry cleaning were awaiting laundering. Her bedroom was located there, as well.

Ding.

She frowned when the elevator slowed. She thought she was alone and clearly, she was wrong. Her eyes widened as it came to a stop on the fourth floor and she was looking through the bronzed wrought iron at Gabriel Cress, known to everyone as Gabe. The middle son of Phillip and Nicolette Cress was busy looking down at his iPhone. She licked her lips as she stepped back until her spine was pressed to the wall and lowered her head. Her heart raced and thundered inside her chest so crazily that she feared he would hear it.

He looked up briefly and nodded his head at seeing her. “Mornin’,” he said, his voice deep and obligatory, as the wrought-iron gate squealed a bit at being opened.

Her pulse pounded. “Good morning, Mr. Cress,” she said, her voice soft as she kept her eyes on the tip of the sensible black sneakers she wore.

This gorgeous man made her so very nervous.

Monica wished she could fold herself into a much smaller version or fade into the woodwork lining the walls. Not that it mattered. She chanced a fleeting look up. He stood off to the side in front of her with his attention still focused on the screen of his phone. He barely noticed her. She was used to that. Men such as Gabe Cress—strong, handsome, sexy, wealthy and confident—were drawn to women so very unlike Monica the Housekeeper, with her all-black uniform and face free of makeup.

She let her eyes study his profile.

He was a handsome man with a strong resemblance to the actor Jesse Williams. Shortbread complexion. Grayish-blue eyes. Square jaw and high cheekbones. Soft mouth. Short haircut with just the shadow of a beard. Tall—over six feet—with an athletic frame that was well defined and perfectly dressed in a crisp navy shirt tucked into dark denims with a cognac belt and polished handmade shoes. It was his signature outfit, seemingly simple but still stylish and tailored.

It had been five years since she was hired by his mother, Nicolette, but she still

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