STUCK WITH MR. BILLIONAIRE FOR CHRISTMAS novel Chapter 6

“Ms. Wealth, please, we can reach a compromise for all parties.”

Taking in a deep breath, I had one option left. “Get Mr. Moretti to have a meeting with me where I list more conditions and also have him issue an apology to me and maybe I’ll reconsider.”

There was rustling of paper at the other end of the line and a brief silence before Mr. Martin spoke up. “Ms. Wealth, you’re asking for the impossible. He wouldn’t-”

“Then I’m afraid I won’t be accepting this offer.”

“Ms. Wealth, we-”

I hung up, not interested to listen any further to him.

Then I sat there, staring at my phone, heart pounding.

What had I just done?

The rational part of my brain scolded me. I needed that job. Needed the paycheck. Mom’s medical bills were piling up faster than I could pay them, and my savings account was running on fumes.

I should’ve swallowed my pride. Should’ve said yes immediately, kept my head down, done whatever Dante Moretti wanted just to stay employed.

But I couldn’t.

I wouldn’t.

He didn’t get to treat me like I was disposable.

My phone buzzed again an hour later.

Mr. Martin.

I almost ignored it. But something made me answer.

“He’s agreed to meet with you,” Mr. Martin said. “On your terms. Tomorrow. 6 PM.”

I blinked. “He… agreed?”

“Yes.”

“To apologize?”

“He agreed to a private meeting. I suggest you don’t push your luck beyond that.”

A laugh bubbled up before I could stop it. Dante Moretti was actually bending. Which meant this deal was more important than his ego.

Good.

Maybe I could get my respect back, even if I didn’t get my job.

“Fine,” I said. “Tomorrow at six.”

***

I spent the next day preparing.

Not just mentally but physically. If I was walking into Dante Moretti’s office, I needed to look like someone he couldn’t dismiss. Someone who belonged in that room as much as he did.

I stood in front of the mirror, smoothing my hands over the navy sheath dress I’d bought for interviews but never had a reason to wear. It was right for this

I adjusted my hair for the third time, even though it was already in place. Checked my makeup. Reapplied lipstick.

There was a popular saying, “Dress the way you want to be addressed.”

Maybe that was where I went wrong the first time. Maybe he didn’t take me seriously because I looked like every other employee instead of someone who commanded attention.

A cough echoed from the living room.

I froze.

Another cough. Wet. Painful.

I rushed out of my bedroom and found Mom bent over on the couch, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth. When she pulled it away, red stained the white fabric.

“Mom-”

“I’m fine.” Her voice came out raspy, strained.

She wasn’t fine.

I guided her back against the cushions, my hands shaking. Two years ago, my mother could carry groceries up three flights of stairs without breaking a sweat. She worked two jobs, sometimes three, and never complained. She held our family together after Dad died, made sure my sister Maya and I never went to bed hungry, never felt the weight of how hard she was struggling.

Now, ovarian cancer was eating her alive from the inside out.

“Cinnamon.” She reached for my hand, squeezing weakly. “Do you really want to go back there?”

I swallowed hard. “It’s just a meeting.”

“He treated you terribly. You don’t deserve that. I don’t care how much we need the money. Your well-being matters more.”

Another cough rattled her chest. She winced, pressing the handkerchief back to her mouth.

My throat tightened.

She needed chemo. It cost so much per session. More than I made in a month but Insurance covered some of it, but not enough. Never enough.

If I didn’t get my job back, if I didn’t find something that paid just as well, I didn’t know what we’d do.

“I’m just going to hear him out,” I said softly. “If anything feels wrong, I’ll walk away. I promise.”

“Promise me, Cinnamon.”

I couldn’t say the words. Couldn’t lie to her face.

So I smiled instead. Nodded.

She studied me for a long moment, then sighed. “Be careful.”

I kissed her forehead. “I have to go. I don’t want to be late.”

***

The office eerie when I walked in. Like the building itself was holding its breath.

Employees glanced at me as I passed, then quickly looked away. No one smiled. No one said hello.

They knew what happened. Of course they did.

I kept my head high, shoulders back, walking like I owned the place. Like I hadn’t been dragged out by security less than forty-eight hours ago.

Dante’s personal assistant met me at the elevator-a polite, good-looking guy in his late twenties who introduced himself as Tate.

“Mr. Moretti is expecting you,” he said, gesturing toward the executive floor.

I followed him down the long hallway lined with glass walls and now minimalist décor. Everything had been redecorated and looked expensive and untouchable. They did all that within less than forty eight hours?

Interesting.

We stopped in front of a set of double doors.

Tate knocked once, then pushed them open.

Dante stood with his back to us, hands in his pockets, staring out the windows overlooking the city. The evening light painted him in gold and shadow, outlining the lines of his suit, the breadth of his shoulders.

He didn’t turn immediately. Just stood there, still as if he had all the time in the world.

Then he turned.

And every coherent thought I had evaporated.

I forgot how to breathe.

Had he always looked like this? High cheekbones, hazel eyes that pinned me in place making me seem like I was something he’d been hunting. His suit was charcoal, perfectly tailored, probably worth more than my rent. Better than the last one I ruined.

But it wasn’t just the suit. It was the way he looked at me.

Like he’d been waiting.

Like he knew exactly what kind of chaos this meeting would bring.

I opened my mouth to say something, anything but no words came out.

I just stood there.

Staring.

Tate cleared his throat. “Ms. Wealth is here.”

I noticed Tate didn’t add sir like every assistant would.

Dante’s gaze didn’t leave mine.

“Close the door,” he said quietly.

Tate stepped out. The door clicked shut behind him.

And suddenly, the room felt far too small.

Dante took a step forward. Then another.

He stopped three feet away, close enough that I could smell his dark and expensive cologne that made my pulse stutter.

“Ms. Wealth.” His voice was dangerous. “You wanted to talk.”

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “You fired me.”

“I did.”

“Unjustly.”

“That’s debatable.”

Heat flared in my chest. He wasn’t even offering me a seat or trying to keep his distance. “You humiliated me in front of the entire executive team. Had security throw me out like I was nothing.”

“And yet,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “here you are.”

“Because you need me.”

Something changed in his expression. Annoyance. Maybe respect.

“Careful, Ms. Wealth.” He stepped closer. “Confidence is attractive. Arrogance gets you fired twice.”

My breath caught.

He was so close now I could see the flecks of green in his hazel eyes, the slight tension in his jaw.

“I don’t need your threats,” I said, voice steadier than I felt. “I need an apology and the conditions I’ll lay out met.”

Dante’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Then I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed.”

MY TERMS.

DANTE:

Who the hell was this?

I stared at the woman standing in my doorway, and for a split second, my brain refused to connect her to the coffee-throwing menace from two days ago.

Then her eyes defiantly met mine and reality snapped into place.

She’d transformed from the hasty, disheveled woman who’d stumbled into the boardroom to a cooperate diva.

The fitted dress hitting just above her knees, moved with her like water. Her hair complimented her subtle makeup. Her heels clicked with a confidence that made her presence swallow the entire room. They elongated her legs beautifully, though I couldn’t help remembering the last time I’d seen her in one. She could barely walk in them then, wobbling like a newborn foal, and yet here she was now, wearing them as if she’d been born in them.

I’d redecorated this office specifically to impress. Minimalist furniture, custom lighting, art pieces. Everything designed to establish dominance before a single word was spoken.

But standing here, watching her take in the space with those judgemental eyes, I found myself wondering if she was impressed.

Why the hell did I care?

Focus.

Except I couldn’t stop staring.

She had understood something fundamental about negotiation. “Dress like you’ve already won.” And she had. That dress had no business looking that good on anyone, but on her? Devastating.

My gaze dropped to her hands. Manicured, delicate fingers wrapped around her bag strap. Then her mouth. Full lips painted a shade of red that made my thoughts veer into territory I had no business exploring.

What would she look like on her knees between my legs? Those hands on my thighs, that mouth stretched around me—

“Stop.” I scolded myself.

Inappropriate. Completely inappropriate.

If she could read my mind right now, she’d slap me across the face and call me a pervert.

I clenched my jaw, forcing my pulse to slow. Heat coiled through the room, winding tight beneath my skin.

She was beautiful. Annoyingly, distractingly beautiful.

And I needed to get control of this situation before I did something monumentally stupid.

“No,” she said, her voice ringing through my thoughts. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to find someone else if you’re not willing to compromise.”

I blinked. “What?”

Her lips curved slightly. She’d caught me. Knew I’d been somewhere else entirely.

Then she moved.

Not away, closer.

She crossed the distance between us, planted one hand on my desk, and leaned in. Her eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch.

“Let me be clear about my terms,” she said. “One: you apologize for firing me. Publicly, in front of the same people who watched you humiliate me. Two: you reinstate me to my original position immediately. Three: you give me the promotion I earned. And four: you pay me a significant bonus for taking on this extra project, one that’s clearly above my pay grade.”

Silence.

No one spoke to me like this. Ever.

CEOs stammered. Investors hedged. Even my own executives chose their words carefully, terrified of saying the wrong thing.

But Cinnamon Wealth stood a whole foot and few inches lower from my face, eyes blazing with challenge, and laid out her demands like she was the one signing my paychecks.

I should’ve been furious. Instead, I felt something else entirely. Something dangerous that tightened low in my stomach and made my hands itch to close the gap between us.

I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to step back.

If I didn’t move, my hands would. They’d reach for her waist, pull her closer, test exactly how much of that defiance was real and how much would shatter under the right pressure.

And then she’d destroy me with a lawsuit I’d absolutely deserve.

“Sit down,” I roughly said .

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I didn’t know these chairs were meant to be sat on. How generous of you.”

I didn’t laugh. Just moved to the edge of my desk and sat, angling my body toward the door so she only had my profile. Distance. I needed distance and the illusion of control.

“Ms. Wealth.” I let the words come out cold, detached. “You don’t call the shots here.”

“But you need me.”

My jaw clenched. I lifted one finger, a warning. “I don’t need you.”

I let the word settle between us.

“However,” I continued, “your former boss insists you’re the most competent person for this job. I think that’s bullshit. But since I actually listen to my employees—”

“You never listened to me.” Her voice cut through mine like she’d been waiting for the opening. “Instead, you tried to bully me. And when you realized I wasn’t a pushover, you punished me. Because apparently, the moon revolves around your world.”

Heat flared in my chest. “I just told you not to interrupt me.”

She held my gaze, unflinching.

Then, slowly, she leaned back. Mellowed. Not submission but irritation. Testing how far she could push before I snapped.

Good. At least one of us was thinking clearly.

“You’re here because of Martin,” I said, forcing my voice into professionalism. “Not because I want you. The only thing I’m considering from your list of demands is a bonus payment. You’ll work here temporarily. If you prove yourself worthy during this project, I’ll reinstate you. And if that happens, you’ll get your promotion. So work hard, Ms. Wealth. Make this deal a success. Then your probation ends.”

I stood, turning toward my desk. Toward the safety of my chair and the computer screen that would give me an excuse not to look at her.

“Martin will communicate the exact bonus amount,” I added. “We’re done here.”

I began to go through my email, a signal to her that I’d gotten busy.

Suddenly, I heard a disbelieving scoff. She grabbed her bag, the movement abrupt enough that I glanced up despite not wanting to.

She walked toward the door, heels clicking against the hardwood with enough force to punctuate every step.

UGLY DINNER.