Dear Greek Billionaire

by Marian Tee

  “I have to go, darling,” her mother was saying. “I need to speak with Ms. Runner-Up here.”

  Willow winced. Even though she expected her mother to make a dig about her second place finish in yesterday’s gymnastics competition, it still stung.

  Charmaine paused, listening, then nodded with a sigh. “You’re so lucky your daughter’s perfect. Mine’s just…” Another sigh. “Sometimes, I wonder if my baby got switched with another in the hospital, you know?”

  Hearing the joke didn’t bother Willow. It was one of her mother’s favorites, and so she had long gotten used to it.

  Her mother was laughing now, the lilting sound proof of Charmaine’s impressive vocal repertoire. It was just too bad she didn’t have any Broadway shows to use it for.

  Knowing there was no escaping this time, Willow turned around and took her usual seat at the table. As she reached for the napkin to place on her lap, she accidentally knocked her glass down.

  Shiiiiiit. Her mother was going to—

  Charmaine screeched.

  That.

  “It’s empty,” Willow said quickly, but it was too late. She tried not to rear back as Charmaine jumped to her feet, her flawless face twisted in anger.

  Stay calm. That was the first rule when dealing with mood swings caused by depression. She had learned it from the countless pamphlets she had devoured while accompanying her mother to therapy.

  “Hold on a second, Millie.” The steely tone Charmaine used as she put the phone down made Willow flinch inwardly.

  Charmaine was walking towards her now.

  Why did it feel so normal? This fear? The way her heart was hammering? Was this how it would feel to fall in love, too?

  Charmaine stood in front of her now.

  Willow said, “I’m sorry, Ma—”

  SLAP!

  A second later, Charmaine was down on her knees, holding Willow’s hands. “Sorry, so sorry, ma belle.”

  Willow’s cheek stung. The same pamphlets told her that it was critical to make the depressed individual aware of his or her wrongdoings. This was to prevent the individual from doing something worse.

  Experience, however, had taught Willow differently. Experience taught her it was better to pretend. Fewer chances of getting slapped around that way.

  And so she said, “It’s nothing, Mama. It was my fault anyway.” And in a way, Willow did believe that. Because she had seen Charmaine with other people – with strangers even – and her mother had never been like this with any of them. It was only with Willow, only with her own daughter. And because she wasn’t stupid, she got it – she just had to work harder next time to live up to her mother’s expectations.

  Charmaine wiped her tears. “Such a sweet girl.” Watching her mother rise back up made Willow feel dizzy. So feminine, so graceful, it almost made her feel like she had imagined everything.

  Looking down at her daughter, Charmaine murmured, “I just don’t understand how can you be like this, ma belle. I know you try so hard to be like me, and somehow that’s even more embarrassing.”

  Another sigh. “But no matter, soon it will be prom season and we will have all our dreams come true.” She waited for her daughter’s affirmation. “Willow?”

  Willow swallowed. “Mama…” How could she say it? How? Her heart was hammering against her chest, harder and harder, and her head started to spin, faster and faster.

  Was this…panic?

  “Willow?” Charmaine’s voice was hard.

  It was enough to make Willow want to pee. “I…” She took a deep breath. “I didn’t get nominated.” She cringed, eyes squeezing shut, waiting for an explosion that never came.

  Somehow, that made it worse.

  Slowly, she opened her eyes, and that was when she saw it—

  “Mama, no!” She instinctively covered her face and head in self-defense, protecting herself the best she could as Charmaine threw a vase she had grabbed from the dining table at her.

  Willow bit back a cry as the vase exploded into pieces, a few shards of glass finding its home under the skin of her hands. Before she realized what was happening, Charmaine had shoved her out of her chair with a cry.

  “Mama, noooooo—” She ended up choking in pain as Charmaine started kicking her. Everywhere.

  “Why can’t you do anything right?” Her mother screamed at her. “WHY? Don’t you understand that was our last hope? I can’t have a fucking Southern belle show if my daughter can’t even be voted prom queen!”

  Willow couldn’t answer. All she could do was curl up in a ball and try to roll out of danger’s way. If her mother’s stilettos ever hit her spine, she was done for.

  Dimly, Willow heard her mother crying even as she kept trying to kick her own daughter. She wanted to cry, too, but experience also taught her it would just make everything worse.

  “You stupid, stupid girl! You know what they call me? A fucking has been! I needed you to do one simple thing to change our lives and you—”

  Charmaine fell to her knees and started pulling Willow’s hair.

  “Mama, please!” Willow tried to struggle out of Charmaine’s hold.

  “Maybe next time, you shouldn’t try at all,” Charmaine screamed at her face. “If you don’t try, at least you won’t seem like such a failure!”

  Charmaine’s fingers tightened around Willow’s hair. The next thing she knew, Charmaine had used her grip to pull her head up and then smash it back down on the floor.

  This time, the pain was inconceivable. This time, Willow started to cry. “Mama, please.” But Charmaine was straddling her now, and she kept banging Willow’s head against the floor.

  “Do you get it now? Do you get it?” Charmaine’s shrill voice shook with rage. “Stop fucking trying so hard and maybe I won’t get this mad! It’s all your fault I’m like this! Your fault, your fault—” She started slapping Willow, tried to scratch her daughter’s eyes out. “Stop trying!”

  “I will,” Willow sobbed. “I’ll stop trying. I will. So please. Please, please stop, Mama. Please.”

  But her mother kept hitting her. Even when her sobs died and her throat started to ache at the number of times she kept promising she would never try again, Charmaine just kept hurting her until finally…it no longer hurt.

  Willow passed out.

  Chapter One

  Dear Greek Billionaire,

  Just because I’m applying as your secretary doesn’t mean I want you. Maybe I just want…umm…a job?

  - The Art of Turning Down a Greek Billionaire

  Present time

  “Life and death, Willow Somerset,” she told her reflection in the powder room’s mirror seriously. “This is a matter of life and death, so no excuses. You need to make this deal.”

  At the back of her mind, Willow could hear Charmaine laughing at her, mocking her. There you go again, trying when you know how this is going to end.

  Repressing a shiver, Willow slammed a mental door shut on her mother’s imaginary face. Shiiiit. Maybe she needed to start taking meds again. She hadn’t had these thoughts for so long, at least not since the night—

  Shiiiiiiit.

  Another mental door slammed shut.

  If this went on, she would run out of imaginary doors to use.

  Focus, Willow. Life and death. She forced her gaze back on her reflection. “You’ve got this. You’ve got this.”

  When she came out of the restroom, the receptionist was waiting for her. “Mr. Manolis will see you now, Miss…?”

  Willow flashed the other woman her friendliest smile. “If I tell you, I’d have to kill you.” But actually, it was the opposite. If she told the receptionist, it was Willow who’d die. She needed this more than anything.

  The woman didn’t even bat an eyelash. “This way please.”

  Sheeesh. Robots had more feeling than this one. To forget about how nervous she was, Willow counted the steps as she followed behind the receptionist.

  At the back of her mind, she could sti
ll hear her mother laughing. The sensible part of her knew it wasn’t real, knew it was just her guilt manifesting itself. Because that was how depression destroyed families. It made everyone around the depressed feel guilty for being helpless, when there truly wasn’t anything one could do.

  Sometimes, you just had to let go and wait for the person to want to help herself.

  Willow heard the other woman speak, but she couldn’t really make sense of it. She felt like she was floating, and everything had become surreal. Maybe she didn’t really need meds after all. Her nervousness was doing a fine job as it was, giving her a fake sense of calm.

  The receptionist closed the door behind her. “Mr. Manolis is expecting you now, Miss.”

  “Thank you, Irona.”

  “My name isn’t Irona.” No sign of recognition or any kind of feeling in the woman’s eyes or tone as she answered.

  “Richie Rich?”

  “My name is not Richie Rich.”

  Shiiiiiit. There was actually a person who didn’t know Richie Rich?

  “S-sorry.” Willow fought to keep her face straight as she walked past the receptionist, but her amusement died soon enough when she entered the office and saw…him.

  She was blind to everything else. It didn’t matter that his office was one of the most stylish she had ever seen. Everything was in black, from the lacquered walls to the leather furniture and carpet. And ahead of her, dominating the room, was a twelve-foot-long table with more curves than corners, made entirely of granite.

  On second thought, stylish didn’t really cover it. Lavish was more like it, but the beauty of his office wasn’t the reason she was fighting not to run away.

  No, the reason for that was the man who owned all of this.

  Him.

  Also know as…

  Motherfucker.

  Willow struggled to keep her thoughts from her face, but it was so damn hard. Unfortunately for her, Motherfucker looked even more gorgeous than she remembered. Taller. Sexier. More powerful. More—

  Imaginary door #3, closing on that thought right this second. She had no business thinking such thoughts. That part of their…acquaintance was totally over.

  So many thoughts ran through her head, questions that her favorite heroines from books could so easily say if it were up to them. Did you ever think of me after that night? Was it really just a one-night stand to you? What are you thinking of right now?

  And most of all—

  Why did you have to leave me?

  Why did you have to leave me?

  Why did you have to leave me?

  Every night, she had thought about that question. Every damn night. And not once did she find an answer to it.

  In her mind, Willow could already hear herself saying, Good afternoon, Motherfucker.

  Willow took a deep breath—

  Life and death, life and death.

  She needed to remember her priorities.

  Lifting her chin up, she said calmly, “Good afternoon, Mr. Manolis.”

  ****

  Stavros Manolis was not the type of person who stared. But somehow, when it came to the young woman standing in front of him, it was always what he ended up doing.

  Today was no exception.

  Willow’s taste in fashion was even more appalling than what memory served, but somehow he found it easier to overlook now. Actually, it almost felt endearing, the knack she had for making herself dowdier than she really was.

  Her dark hair was twisted up in a strict bun, her face once again dominated by a hideously huge pair of plastic-framed glasses. Her clothes were her crowning glory, thanks to the elephant-printed blouse she wore under her unusually large jacket, and a close second was her clogs, which had murderously thick heels. The only remarkably nice thing about her entire appearance was her Montblanc briefcase, and that was it.

  All in all, she was still the most unattractive woman he had ever been with. He should find her a major turn-off, but instead Stavros was unpleasantly aware of how his every sense had stirred to life the very moment she walked into the room.

  You look beautiful. I want to see you angry. But most of all, I want to say I’m sorry.

  He shut those thoughts down, lit it on fire in his head, and waited until they were all gone. That was one road he wouldn’t ever cross again. And in his eyes, being with Willow wasn’t just walking down that road, but living there.

  “What are you doing here?” His cold voice had her flinching, even though he could see her trying her best to hide it. He hated that it was so, but he wouldn’t take it back. “Is this Leventis’ idea of a joke?”

  He was furious with her. As always. Why? Steeling herself against his harshness, Willow reminded herself of her priorities. Life and death, life and death.

  She pasted a smile on her lips. “No, sir. I’m here to apply as your secretary.”

  He returned the smile. “I see.” It actually made her start to hope until he said bitingly, “You truly think you have a chance? Didn’t I tell you I never wanted to see you again?”

  Hurt flashed in her eyes, and he was immediately ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “That was uncalled for.”

  She struggled to keep smiling. “If you want me to forgive you, then say you’ll seriously consider my application.” It was an uphill battle, keeping her voice casual, but she had no choice. She had to make light of his words, make light of how they stung because that was the only way she could get rid of the chokehold it had on her, preventing Willow from even breathing properly.

  Disquiet filled him at the way Willow appeared so desperate even though she fought hard not to show it. He should have her leave his office now, Stavros thought heavily, but instead he heard himself asking, “Why do you want this job so much?”

  Instead of answering, she lifted up the résumé she had in her hand. “Would you like to see my credentials?” She stepped forward slowly. Half of her expected him to tell her to stop while the other half-hoped he wouldn’t.

  Fuck. Stavros couldn’t take his gaze away from Willow’s gently swaying hips. He had never found that part of a woman’s body particularly entrancing, but right now all he wanted to do was hold on to them.

  Willow and him on the executive chair behind him, her skirt riding up, his hands on her hips as he bounced her up and down—

  Fuck.

  “Stop.” Thank God his office was huge as hell. He didn’t want her close enough to see the bulge in his pants.

  Willow froze. Did that mean he wasn’t even going to give her a chance? When she saw him start to speak, panic erupted inside her and Willow heard herself saying in a bossy voice, “STOP.”

  It was Stavros’ turn to become still. He didn’t know whether to be exasperated or offended. “Did you really just tell me to stop?”

  “Give me a chance.” She hated that she had to beg, but she had no choice. “Please.”

  The emotion in that last word had him hesitating. Stavros knew what it must have cost her to say it, so why had she? Turning around, he said, “Fine. Take a seat and we’ll see what you have there.”

  Walking back to his chair, he used the time to wrestle back control over both his mind and body. He would hear her out, say something nice and polite, and after that, he would make sure they wouldn’t ever cross paths again.

  Seeing Willow still rooted to the same spot, he raised a brow. “Have you changed your mind then?”

  At the words, she couldn’t get to the seat across his desk fast enough.

  Her haste tempted him to smile, but he sternly suppressed the urge to do so. That would only encourage her to be cheekier, and that wasn’t what he wanted from a secretary—

  Fuck. The way he was thinking, it was as if hiring her was already a foregone conclusion.

  When she was seated, Stavros noted the way her chest was heaving, and it was only then he realized how nervous she was. His forehead furrowed. Did she really want the job that much?

  “Aren’t you furious with me?” Stavros
asked curtly, seeing no point beating around the bush. Even now, he could still remember the look on her face when she realized he was leaving. Even now, he regretted it…but he also knew if, given the chance, he wouldn’t change one thing.

  Ouch. Could she say that out loud? Just so he knew how she hadn’t failed to notice that he was always only less circumspect with her?

  “After what happened,” he pressed on when Willow didn’t say anything, “I’d have thought you wouldn’t want to see me again.”

  Spot on, Willow thought. It was just too damn bad she couldn’t afford that. Pushing herself to keep smiling, she said lightly, “I realized I was overreacting.”

  He raised a brow, visibly skeptical.

  “It was just one night, and you kept your promise.” It was a breezy tone that killed her to achieve, but she did it. “So, all in all, we’re good,” she said brightly. And to prevent more awkward questions, she presented him with her résumé. “Please have a look.” A pause then she added hastily, “sir.”

  Wordlessly, Stavros accepted the document.

  This man must win a lot at poker. Willow badly wanted to fidget in her seat as she watched Stavros read her CV. And he really wasn’t going to say anything else about that night?

  Ouch again, billionaire. Way to go at making her feel like a loser for caring so much about something he probably didn’t even remember.

  Stavros suddenly spoke, startling her. “You live in the States now?”

  “Yes. I’m sharing an apartment with a friend.” Pause. “Sir.” She really had to remember to call him that.

  His gaze went back to her résumé. “You have certification to prove your fluency in the languages you’ve listed here?”

  “Yup. I mean, yes, sir.”

  “All of it? French? German? Arabic?” Stavros didn’t bother mentioning Greek and English, knowing firsthand her fluency in it.

  “I’m a quarter French because of my mother,” she explained, “and I took up German and Arabic when I was in college.” Another pause. “Sir.”