Lila's feet ached as she kicked off her borrowed heels, collapsing onto the lumpy couch in her Brooklyn apartment.
The gala's glitter felt like a fever dream, the kind where you wake up wondering if you'd imagined it all.
Her black dress, still smelling faintly of prosciutto and champagne, was slung over a chair, and the hum of the city outside her window was a stark contrast to the Plaza's opulence.
She closed her eyes, but the image of Elliot Voss in his tuxedo, his gray eyes warm and teasing, refused to fade.
"Stupid," she muttered, pulling a throw blanket over her legs.
Stupid for noticing the way he'd looked at her, like she was more than a maid with a tray.
Stupid for letting her heart race when he'd said her name.
And really stupid for feeling a pang when Cassandra Leigh had draped herself over him like a designer scarf.
Lila had no right to be jealous.
Elliot was her boss, not her boyfriend.
He lived in a world of penthouses and private jets, while she was scraping by for a shot at culinary school.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table, Mateo's name lighting up the screen.
She answered, tucking it against her ear.
"If you're calling to gloat about the gala tips, I'm hanging up."
Mateo's laugh crackled through the line. "Nah, I'm calling to check if you're still swooning over Mr. Billionaire. You two were practically sparking out there. Half the room noticed."
Lila groaned, sinking deeper into the couch. "We were not. I was serving figs, he was being polite. End of story."
"Polite?" Mateo snorted.
"The man ignored a room full of rich people to flirt with you. That's not polite, Lila. That's interested."
Her cheeks warmed, and she was glad he couldn't see her.
"He's not interested. He's… nice. And probably bored. I'm just a distraction from his fancy life."
"Keep telling yourself that," Mateo said, his tone teasing but gentle.
"But I saw his face. Guy looked like he wanted to ditch the gala and eat figs with you in a corner all night."
"Stop," she said, but a smile tugged at her lips.
She shoved it down, focusing on the ache in her feet instead.
"Anyway, I've got bigger things to worry about. Like that interview today. I think I bombed it."
Mateo's voice softened.
"What happened? You were so ready."
She sighed, picking at a loose thread on the blanket.
The Culinary Institute interview had been a whirlwind—two chefs grilling her about her experience, her goals, her "culinary philosophy."
She'd rambled about her mom's recipes, her love for baking, her dream of a cozy café where food felt like home.
But her nerves had tripped her up, and when they'd asked about her formal training (exactly none), their smiles had turned polite, distant.
"I don't know," she said.
"They kept asking about my background, and I'm just… a maid who bakes on the side. I could tell they weren't impressed."
"You're more than that," Mateo said firmly. "You're a damn good cook, and your food's got soul. They'd be idiots not to see it."
"Thanks," she said, her throat tight.
"But soul doesn't pay tuition. And if I don't get a scholarship, I'm screwed. My savings are a joke."
"You'll figure it out," he said.
"You always do. Now get some sleep. You've got another shift at the penthouse tomorrow, right? Don't spill coffee on him again."
She laughed, the sound shaky.
"No promises."
After hanging up, she stared at the ceiling, her mind replaying the gala.
Not just Elliot, but Cassandra—her cool smile, her possessive grip on his arm. Lila had felt invisible next to her, a speck in a world that wasn't hers.
She shook her head, forcing herself up.
She needed tea, or maybe a shower, anything to wash away the night.
As she shuffled to the kitchen, a knock at the door stopped her.
She frowned—it was past midnight.
Mateo wouldn't show up unannounced, and her neighbors weren't exactly the friendly type.
She peered through the peephole, her heart lurching.
A delivery guy stood there, holding a sleek black box tied with a silver ribbon.She opened the door, cautious.
"Uh, can I help you?"
"Delivery for Lila Harper," the guy said, handing her the box.
"Sign here."
She scribbled her name, confused, and shut the door.
The box was heavier than it looked, and a small card was tucked under the ribbon.
Her fingers trembled as she opened it, revealing neat, masculine handwriting:Lila,
You mentioned your mixer was on its last legs.
Consider this an investment in more of those pancakes.
—ElliotHer breath caught.
No way.
She tore open the box, revealing a gleaming stand mixer—cherry red, top-of-the-line, the kind she'd drooled over in catalogs but could never afford.
It was worth more than her monthly rent. Maybe two months'.
"Oh my God," she whispered, running her fingers over the smooth metal.
This wasn't just a mixer.
This was a dream, wrapped in a bow.
She sank onto the couch, the card still clutched in her hand.
Why would he do this? They'd joked about it that morning, but she hadn't been serious. Was this a thank-you for breakfast? A pity gift? Or—her heart skipped—something more? The thought made her dizzy, and not in a good way.
Gifts like this came with strings, didn't they? Men like Elliot didn't just drop hundreds of dollars on their maids for no reason.
Her phone buzzed again, this time with a text from an unknown number: Hope the mixer's the right color.
Let me know if you need anything else. —EShe stared at the screen, her pulse racing. He'd gotten her number—probably from Mrs. Delaney—and now he was texting her. At midnight.
About a mixer that cost more than her entire kitchen.
She typed a reply, then deleted it. Typed another, deleted that too.
Finally, she settled on: This is too much, Elliot.
I can't accept it.
But thank you. It's beautiful.His response came almost instantly: It's not too much. You deserve it.
Keep making those pancakes.
She bit her lip, a smile creeping through her panic.
He was impossible.
Generous, charming, and completely out of her league.
She set the phone down, her gaze drifting to the mixer.
It was more than a gift—it was a vote of confidence, a nod to her dreams. And that scared her more than anything.
Because if Elliot Voss believed in her, what else might she start to believe?The next morning, Lila arrived at the penthouse early, the mixer still heavy on her mind.
She'd barely slept, torn between gratitude and unease.
Mrs. Delaney was already bustling around, humming as she dusted the living room. "Morning, dear!" she called.
"Mr. Voss is in his office. He's been up since dawn, poor man. That gala must've worn him out."
Lila nodded, her stomach twisting. She needed to thank Elliot in person, but the thought of facing him after that gift made her palms sweat.
She busied herself in the kitchen, prepping for her usual cleaning tasks, but her eyes kept drifting to the counter where she'd made those pancakes.
Where he'd stood, teasing her, making her feel seen.
The office door creaked open, and Elliot appeared, his hair damp from a shower, his usual suit replaced by a fitted sweater and jeans.
He looked less like a billionaire and more like… someone she could talk to.
"Morning," he said, his voice warm.
"You get the delivery?"She swallowed, setting down the sponge she'd been gripping.
"Yeah. Elliot, it's… incredible. But it's too much. I can't—"
"You can," he said, leaning against the doorway. His eyes held hers, steady and unyielding.
"You said your mixer was dying. I figured you needed a good one to keep up with those recipes."
"But it's expensive," she said, her voice rising.
"Like, stupid expensive. I'm just your maid, Elliot. You don't owe me anything."
He stepped closer, his expression softening. "You're not just anything, Lila. And it's not about owing you. I wanted to do it. For you."
Her breath hitched.
The kitchen felt too small again, the air thick with something she didn't dare name. "Why?" she asked, barely a whisper.
He hesitated, like he was searching for the right words.
"Because you're talented. And you're… real. I don't meet a lot of real people."She stared at him, her heart pounding.
This was dangerous territory, the kind that could cost her her job, her focus, her carefully guarded heart.
But before she could respond, Mrs. Delaney's voice rang out from the hall:
"Lila, phone for you! It's the Culinary Institute!"
Lila froze, her eyes widening. Elliot's face lit up, a grin breaking through.
"Go," he said, nodding toward the hall.
"Take it."She stumbled out of the kitchen, her mind a whirlwind.
The call could mean everything—or nothing. But as she reached for the phone, she felt Elliot's gaze on her, steady and warm, and for the first time, she let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, she could have more than she'd ever dared to dream.