Chapter 7 She wasn’t Cinderella
Millie woke up, and she felt everything hurt. Her brain was pulsing against her skull, and her mouth was dry. She blinked at the ceiling. Where the hell was she?
Then it came back. Sort of. Beer. More beer. Aidan Moretti. That kiss—and now this enormous, expensive, completely-not-hers bed.
She sat up too fast and her stomach flipped, and she had to close her eyes and breathe through it.
Where was her bag? Her phone? Did she leave it by the door?
Shuffling out of bed like a reanimated corpse, she found her tote dumped near the entrance. The phone was inside, its screen lit up. 7:00 AM.
Three missed calls from Clara.
Eight from Bert. Eight!
Bert didn’t call unless something was actively on fire. And even then, he usually just sent a passive-aggressive text.
Millie hit dial with a sinking feeling in her gut. It rang once.
“Millie! Girl, finally!” Bert sounded... weirdly upbeat. Suspiciously so. “Listen, I don’t have long. Those specialty cleaning products? I need ’em back this weekend.”
She squinted. “Bert, I’m still at the penthouse. I’m—”
“Oh, don’t worry. You’re staying there all week. They requested you specifically. Paid double. In advance.”
She blinked. “What?”
“I had to shuffle some appointments around, but hey, worth it. That kind of money doesn’t just fall out of a vacuum cleaner.”
Her stomach dropped. “What about my other clients?”
“Handled,” he said. “Now, the equipment. You have it, right?”
She looked around. “Yeah. It’s here.”
“Great. Keep doing what you’re doing, champ. You’re making me look good.” And he hung up.
Millie stared at the phone, her brain still foggy.
This didn’t feel right. None of it did.
She then tapped on her call log and hit Clara’s name.
“Millie! Jesus Christ, where are you? I’ve been calling since last night!”
“I’m still at the penthouse,” Millie muttered, rubbing her temple. “Just got off the phone with Bert. Apparently, I’m... booked here for the entire week?”
Clara let out a whoop so loud, Millie yanked the phone from her ear.
"Hey, seriously. About your mom. I talked to Mom and Dad. You can crash with us for a while, okay? Until you figure things out.”
“Thanks,” she mumbled.
When the call ended, Millie wandered back toward the desk, and there it was—half-buried under some bougie interior design magazines was a note. Feel comfortable. See you when I get back.
“Feel comfortable”?
Her phone buzzed again.
Millie sighed, bracing herself, and picked up. “Hey, I’m trying to find a place—”
“You better,” her mother snapped. “I gave you three months’ notice, Millie. Don’t you dare blame Clint. He’s been considerate. But with the twins coming and his son moving back in, the garage is no longer an option. If your stuff’s still there by Friday, it’s going on the curb.”
“Okay, Mom,” Millie said flatly.
“You’re twenty-five. It’s past time you figured your life out. If you’d just married Dennis—”
“Mom, I didn’t love Dennis. And I was twenty-two.”
“Exactly. And still stupid enough to think love mattered more than security. If you’d stayed with him, you’d have a house by now.”
Millie squeezed her eyes shut. “I said I’ll find a place. Just—please don’t throw my stuff out.”
“You have until Friday.” Click.
The silence that followed was worse than the call. She blinked hard, willing herself not to cry.
The next few days were weird. She just... wandered. Watched TV. Showered in water pressure so good it made her hate herself a little. Every time the buzzer rang, she hoped it was Aidan. It never was. Just delivery guys bringing in overpriced salads and pastries too pretty to eat.
By Friday, she still hadn’t seen Aidan. She then began to think that maybe this was his move—ghost them, and hope they eventually wander out on their own.
So Millie started packing up the supplies, throwing things into the cleaning caddy. Her work shirt was ruined—Aidan had literally ripped it open like some kind of romance novel caveman—so she had to dig through his closet for something halfway wearable.
She found a white button-down in his closet. It was too big, obviously. The sleeves swallowed her hands, and the hem nearly reached her knees. But whatever. Not like she had options. It was either this or show up half-naked in her ripped uniform.
By noon, she’d finally worked up the nerve to leave. She dragged her cleaning gear into the lobby and immediately winced. She’d completely forgotten about the back entrance.
The lobby was spotless. Polished marble floors, high ceilings, and plants that probably had caretakers with degrees. Her sneakers squeaked with every step, like they were trying to announce, Hey! Someone poor is here!
She kept her head down, gripping the tote with her cleaning supplies.
Then a man appeared—tall, perfect suit, that smooth, soulless smile you only see in country club brochures. “Ms. Foster?”
She blinked. “Uh, yeah?”
“May I help you with your luggage?”
She looked down at her sad tote bag. A busted spray bottle was sticking out of the top. “It’s not luggage,” she muttered. “It’s just cleaning stuff. I got it.”
From the corner, another guy appeared—stocky, pressed uniform, dead-serious expression.
“This is Gordon,” the Suit announced. “He’ll be your personal driver while you’re in residence.”
Millie choked. “I’m sorry—my what?”
“Your driver. Mr. Moretti has instructed us to ensure your comfort.”
She stared. “That’s... hilarious. I was just here to clean the guy’s place.”
The man’s smile twitched. “Nevertheless, these are Mr. Moretti’s instructions. Gordon is at your disposal.”
Gordon gave her a polite nod, the kind that made her feel like he’d seen a thousand versions of her and didn’t particularly care which one she was. “Where to, Miss?”
“Home?”
Gordon was already moving, opening the car door.
“Wait,” Millie said as she slid into the plush back seat. “Where is Mr. Moretti, anyway?”
“London,” Gordon replied.
“Why?” she asked.
Gordon met her eyes in the rearview. “Business transaction."
The car pulled away from the curb. She glanced back at the building—towering, sleek, stupidly shiny. Then she saw the name at the top, in huge, smug gold letters: Moretti Tower.
Her stomach turned. It had been there the whole damn time. She just hadn’t connected the dots. Moretti.
Aidan owned the place. Like, the whole building. He wasn’t just rich—he was capital R Rich. Private-jet-to-London rich.
She slumped back into the seat. Outside, the city kept moving. People rushing to jobs, meetings, and lives that made sense. Her little detour into Aidan's world felt like a weird fever dream now.
He hadn’t even said goodbye.
Fine. Whatever. Let him fly off to London and do whatever mysterious billionaire crap he was doing. She had real-life problems to get back to. Like convincing her mom not to throw her clothes on the lawn.
And Aidan was already fading—just another weird chapter in the mess that was her twenties.
She wasn’t Cinderella. She was the girl who cleaned up after Cinderella got the prince.