Taming The Billionaire

MAYA

"Evans!"

The sharp bark of my manager's voice cut through the low murmur of the charity gala, slicing straight into my nerves.

I stiffened and tightened my grip on the tray of champagne flutes as I stepped fully into the staff corridor. Beyond the open doors, the Crystal Hall glittered like something out of a dream I didn't belong in towering chandeliers dripping light, gold detailing etched into the walls, marble floors polished so brightly they reflected the guests walking over them.

Money lived here.

Breathed here.

Owned everything.

"You're late," my manager snapped, already shoving the tray into my hands. "Get out there. And don't embarrass me."

As if embarrassment was optional in a place like this.

"Yes, sir," I said quietly, because arguing wouldn't change anything.

I squared my shoulders and walked into the room.

The gala was supposedly for charity, though I doubted most of the people here had ever truly needed help. Silk gowns whispered past me. Diamonds caught the light with every careless laugh. Men in tailored suits spoke in low, confident tones, discussing numbers that would never exist in my world.

I moved through them carefully, invisible and hyper-visible at the same time.

A server was supposed to blend in, but somehow, I felt like I stood out more than anyone else. Maybe it was the way people looked through me. Or the way they barely acknowledged my presence unless I was in their way.

I stopped at a table where an older man in a tuxedo gave me a slow, critical glance.

"Careful," he said, lips curling slightly. "We wouldn't want you breaking anything important."

Something sharp twisted in my chest.

I bit back the response burning on my tongue.

I couldn't afford to lose this job. Not with rent looming, debt collectors calling like it was their favorite hobby, and a landlord who knocked like he was trying to break the door down.

So I smiled.

Rule number two: don't let the rich jerks get to you.

Minutes blurred into an hour. My arms ached. My feet burned in the cheap black flats we were required to wear. The tray felt heavier with every step, my muscles screaming as I forced myself to keep going.

Then-

one wrong step.

My foot caught the edge of the carpet.

For half a second, my body froze, instincts scrambling too late.

The tray tipped.

Time slowed in the cruelest way.

I watched the glasses slide, watched the champagne arc through the air, watched the inevitable crash as crystal shattered against marble.

The sound was explosive.

A collective gasp swept through the room.

My heart dropped straight into my stomach.

No. No, no, no.

Rule number one rang in my head like a verdict.

Never spill anything.

I stood there, frozen, heat flooding my face as I turned toward the damage.

And that was when I felt it.

Not a voice.

Not movement.

Presence.

The man standing in front of me didn't look angry at first. He didn't shout or curse or draw attention to himself. He simply stood there, still as stone, champagne dripping slowly from the sleeve of his tailored suit.

His gray eyes lifted to mine.

They were calm. Cold. Assessing.

Damian Greyson.

I knew his name instantly. Everyone did.

Damian Greyson.

A name that carried weight long before the man himself appeared. He didn't need introductions,his reputation had already entered the room ahead of him.

Just my luck.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, his posture effortless and controlled, like he was used to rooms bending around him. His suit was expensive in a way that didn't beg for attention. No flashy logos. No excess. Just quiet dominance.

For one terrifying second, I forgot how to breathe.

"Unbelievable," he said softly.

Just one word.

It landed heavier than a shout ever could.

I swallowed hard, clutching the empty tray to my chest like it could shield me. "I-I'm sorry," I said, hating the tremor in my voice.

His gaze didn't waver. Didn't soften.

He stepped closer.

The space between us vanished, and suddenly I was acutely aware of everything-his height, the faint scent of clean cologne, the way the room seemed to hold its breath around him.

"Do you know what you've done?" he asked.

His tone was quiet. Controlled.

That somehow made it worse.

"It was an accident," I said, lifting my chin despite myself. My hands shook, but I didn't look away. "I didn't mean to-"

"I know," he interrupted, cool and dismissive. "Intent doesn't change outcome."

Something sparked in my chest then. Fear, yes, but also anger.

"I can clean it up," I said quickly. "I'll pay for the damage if I have to. I just-"

He scoffed, and I nearly laughed-not because it was funny, but because the absurdity of it all pressed against my chest.

The Rolex on his wrist glinted under the lights, each second it marked worth more than my monthly rent.

Pay?

His suit probably cost more than everything I owned put together.

He looked past me.

That single gesture erased me more thoroughly than words ever could.

"Get her out of here."

That was it.

No raised voice. No insult.

Just a sentence delivered like a decision already made.

My manager was beside me instantly, pale and frantic. "Maya," he whispered urgently, "you're done. Mr. Greyson wants you out. Now."

The humiliation burned sharp and immediate. Tears pricked at my eyes.

My manager didn't meet my eyes as he moved, already ushering me away. No hesitation. No apology.

Just relief, like he'd been waiting for an excuse.

I let him guide me away, my jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. Conversations resumed around us as if nothing had happened. Laughter returned. Glasses clinked.

I was already forgotten.

As I was escorted out, I glanced back once.

Damian Greyson hadn't spared me another look.

The night air hit me like a slap.

I walked. And kept walking. The city lights blurred as the reality of what had happened settled heavy in my chest.

By the time I reached my apartment, my hands were trembling.

I dropped my keys onto the counter and stared at the stack of unpaid bills waiting for me like silent accusations.

Rent.

Utilities.

Hospital debts from my mother's last days.

All overdue.

All unforgiving.

And now-I had no job.

I sank into a chair, anger curling tight and bitter inside me

If he hadn't raised his voice. Hadn't insulted me. Hadn't even looked angry.

And somehow, that made it worse.

One word from him had erased my livelihood.

I exhaled slowly, forcing my breathing to steady.

No.

I wouldn't let this end here.

I didn't know how yet, but I would confront him.

Because I refused to disappear just because a man like Damian Greyson decided I was inconvenient.

But I wouldn't forget him.