His Stubborn Cinderella

Sophie’s pov The dinner rush at La Belle Nuit was a kind of torture. The kind where my feet burned, my patience wore thinner than the cheap notepad I scribbled orders on, and entitled customers acted like their overpriced steaks gave them a free pass to be terrible human beings. I adjusted my apron, balancing a tray of cocktails in one hand while dodging a group of businessmen too busy talking about stock markets to notice they were blocking my path. Not that they cared. Men in expensive suits rarely noticed waitresses, unless they were flirting or snapping fingers for a refill. Just two more hours. Then I could go home, ice my feet, and dream about the bakery I still couldn’t afford to open. “Ugh, table fifteen is a nightmare,” Marissa, my coworker, groaned as she passed by, struggling to balance a bottle of champagne in her arms. “One of them just tried to order ‘whatever’s the most expensive’ just to show off.” I sighed, already dreading what kind of people I’d be dealing with. Table fifteen. A group of young, rich socialites who thought the world revolved around them. Their laughter was loud, their designer dresses were worth more than my rent, and the way they talked—oblivious, carefree—reminded me exactly why I hated these types of crowds. Still, tips were tips. I squared my shoulders and approached, with a professional smile in place. “Can I get you anything else?” A blonde girl, clearly tipsy, waved a hand in my general direction. “More champagne!” she declared, dragging out the last syllable. Her friends giggled. I forced a nod. “Coming right up.” As I turned to leave, a high-pitched squeal erupted from the group. “Oh my God, we should totally go to Envy after this!” Oh great. Not only were they loud, but they were club-hopping after drinking here. Just another disaster waiting to happen. I grabbed the champagne from the bar and returned to the table just in time to see the blonde—Olivia, judging by the way her friends kept calling her name—pushed herself to her feet with all the grace of a newborn deer. She wobbled slightly, then tossed her hair back like she had the coordination of a ballerina. “Alright, ladies!” Olivia announced. “Time to go!” Except, as she turned, her foot caught on the base of the table. Time slowed. Her heels skidded against the sleek floors. She stumbled, arms flailing. And just beyond her, through the restaurant’s wide glass entrance, I saw the blinding headlights of an approaching car. I didn’t think so. I dropped the bottle—heard the crash, the collective gasp of the restaurant—and lunged forward, grabbing Olivia’s wrist and yanking her back. Hard. She fell into me, knocking us both into a chair, her shriek muffled by my shoulder. The car outside sped past, oblivious. A second later, the restaurant was buzzing with noise—her friends gasping; the manager rushing over, people staring. Olivia peeled herself away from me, wide eyes blinking in delayed shock. “Oh, my God. Did you just save my life?” I sighed, rubbing my temple. “More like saving you from a very expensive hospital bill.” But Olivia wasn’t listening. She was already grabbing my hands, dramatic and tipsy and still caught up in the moment. “No, seriously. That was—wow. You’re like a superhero or something!” I bit back a groan. “You should sit down.” She didn’t sit down. She turned to her friends. “She saved my life! I owe her. Right? I have to do something for her.” “Olivia, I really don’t—” Before I could finish, she whipped out her phone, fingers moving clumsily across the screen. “I’m calling my brother.” Oh, no. A rich girl's problems were not my responsibility. I was about to tell her to leave me out of it when I noticed the sleek black car pulling up outside; the headlights illuminating the entrance. The restaurant doors opened, and in stepped a man who radiated money. Tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a dark, perfectly tailored suit, he looked like he belonged in a Forbes magazine instead of real life. Sharp jaw, piercing blue eyes, and an air of authority that made the entire room quiet just by existing. I recognized him immediately. Damian Sterling. The billionaire. The man who had business deals splashed across news headlines and his face on more magazine covers than I could count. The kind of man I usually had zero patience for. Olivia waved dramatically. “Damian! You will not believe what just happened.” Damian’s gaze swept over the restaurant before landing on me. And just like that, I was caught under the scrutiny of the most powerful man in the room. “Who are you?” His voice was smooth, deep. A little demanding. Before I could answer, Olivia threw an arm around my shoulders. “She saved me. I almost died. It was so dramatic. You should totally reward her or something.” I stepped out of her grasp, brushing off my apron. “It was nothing.” Damian, however, reached into his jacket and pulled out a sleek black wallet. “I appreciate what you did,” he said, flipping through bills with the kind of ease that only came from having too much money. “Take this.” My stomach twisted. I stared at the crisp hundred-dollar bills in his hand, then backed up at him. He thought he could just throw money at me? Like I was some stray he was tipping for good behavior? Heat prickles in my chest. I crossed my arms. “No, thanks.” Damian blinked. “Excuse me?” “I don’t need your money,” I said flatly. “I have a job.” Something flickered in his expression—surprise, amusement. Maybe even the slightest bit of irritation. I’d bet my last paycheck he wasn’t used to people refusing him. “It’s just a thank-you,” he said, still holding the cash out. “And I’m just saying no.” For a second, we stared at each other, locked in a silent challenge. Around us, Olivia’s friends exchanged glances, whispering. Probably wondering why I wasn’t jumping at the chance to take money from Damian Sterling. Eventually, he tucked the bills away, lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smirk. “Alright,” he said smoothly. “I guess I owe you one.” I huffed, turning back toward the bar. “You don’t owe me anything.” But as I walked away, I could still feel his gaze on me—curious, intrigued. Like he’d just found something he didn’t quite understand. And Damian Sterling didn’t strike me as a man who liked things he couldn’t figure out. Which meant one thing. This wasn’t the last time I’d seen him.