One Year with the Billionaire.

Olivia's Pov "Miss Chen, if you don't deliver those appetizers in the next thirty minutes, consider your contract terminated." I stared at my phone, watching the client's threat dissolve into a black screen as my battery died. Perfect. Just perfect. My catering van had decided to break down on the side of Highway 101, smoke billowing from under the hood like a dragon having a tantrum. Inside the back, three hundred carefully prepared canapés were getting warmer by the minute, and I was supposed to be serving them at Blackwell Industries' investor gala right now. I kicked the tire. Hard. Pain shot through my foot, but at least I felt something other than the crushing weight of failure. "Need help?" A trucker slowed down, leaning out his window. "Unless you can teleport me and two hundred pounds of food to downtown San Francisco in five minutes, I'm beyond help." I tried to smile, but my face wouldn't cooperate. He drove off. Smart man. I pulled out my backup phone, the ancient flip phone I kept for emergencies, and called the only person who answered anymore. "Sophie, I need a miracle." "How bad?" "Career-ending bad. The Blackwell event. My van died, and I'm going to lose the biggest contract I've ever had." My voice cracked. I couldn't afford to cry. Crying was a luxury for people who had time to fall apart. "I'm sending a rideshare. Get there. Salvage what you can." The rideshare cost me eighty dollars I didn't have, and the driver looked ready to murder me when I loaded his pristine Tesla with containers of food. We hit every red light, and I watched the clock tick past the event start time. When I finally burst through the service entrance of Blackwell Tower, I was two hours late. The event coordinator took one look at me and the lukewarm appetizers and turned pale. "They're already serving store-bought alternatives. Mr. Blackwell is furious." My stomach dropped. "Please, just let me set up. I can fix this." "It's too late." She shook her head. "He wants to see you. Now." I followed her through pristine hallways, my secondhand heels clicking against marble that probably cost more than my annual income. The ballroom was stunning, all crystal chandeliers and floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the San Francisco skyline. Beautiful people in beautiful clothes held champagne glasses, and I'd never felt more out of place. Then I saw him. Ashton Blackwell stood near the bar, his tailored suit fitting him like it was born on his body. He was younger than I expected, maybe mid-thirties, with dark hair and the kind of face that belonged on magazine covers. But his eyes were cold, scanning the room like a predator assessing prey. The coordinator cleared her throat. "Mr. Blackwell, this is Olivia Chen from-" "The catastrophically late caterer." His voice was smooth and cutting. "Do you have any idea how unprofessional this makes me look to my investors?" Heat rushed to my cheeks. "My van broke down. I got here as fast as I could." "Excuses don't feed my guests." He turned to the coordinator. "Terminate the contract. Make sure every vendor in the city knows Chen Catering is unreliable." Something inside me snapped. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was knowing that this would destroy the last thread holding my life together. Maybe I just couldn't take another rich person treating me like I was disposable. "You know what? Money can't buy decency." The words came out before I could stop them. "I worked sixteen-hour days this week preparing food that would've been perfect if my fifteen-year-old van hadn't died. But sure, blacklist me. Add me to the long list of little people you've crushed because you can." His eyes widened slightly. Around us, conversations stopped. I'd just committed career suicide in front of San Francisco's elite. "How dare you speak to my grandson that way." I turned to find an elegant older woman in diamonds approaching us. She had the same sharp features as Ashton Blackwell, but her eyes sparkled with something that looked like amusement. "Grandmother, this isn't-" "Hush, Ashton." She studied me like I was a fascinating painting. "What's your name, dear?" "Olivia Chen, ma'am." My anger deflated into mortification. "I apologize for the disruption. I'll leave." "Leave? Nonsense." She smiled. "You're the first person I've seen speak honestly to my grandson in years. He needs that." She turned to Ashton. "I like her." "Eleanor, she ruined the event." "The event is fine. We have food. We have drinks. We have pompous investors congratulating themselves." Eleanor waved dismissively. "But this girl has fire. Spirit. She's exactly what you need." "What I need is a reliable caterer." "What you need," Eleanor said, her voice dropping to something more serious, "is a wife. And I just found her." My brain short-circuited. "I'm sorry, what?" Ashton's jaw clenched. "Grandmother, not here." "You have six months, darling. The clock is ticking." Eleanor patted his arm, then turned to me. "It was lovely meeting you, Olivia. I hope we'll see each other again soon." She glided away, leaving me standing there with a furious billionaire and a destroyed career. I should've run. Instead, I asked, "What did she mean about six months?" "Nothing that concerns you." Ashton pulled out his phone. "My assistant will send you compensation for your wasted ingredients. Consider it a severance." "I don't want your pity money." "It's not pity. It's a transaction." He finally looked directly at me, and I saw something flicker behind that icy exterior. Curiosity, maybe. "Where are you parked?" "I took a rideshare. My van is dead on the highway." He sighed, the sound of a man making a decision he'd regret. "I'll have it towed. And I'll give you a ride home. We need to talk." "About what?" "About whether you meant what you said about money not buying decency." His eyes locked onto mine. "Because I'm about to make you an offer that will test exactly how much your principles are worth."