Being Mr CEO's Bride

Kaelia's Pov

There’s a special place in hell reserved for people who complain about the thread count of hotel sheets.

And if there isn’t, I’m going to write to Satan and make a case for it personally.

“Ma’am,” I said, my voice sugar-sweet and patience hanging on by a thread thinner than those bedsheets she was shrieking about, “we use a high-grade Egyptian cotton, I can assure you.”

The woman—blonde, tanned, surgically sculpted from cheekbone to toe—crossed her arms, fake nails tapping against her Birkin like a ticking time bomb. “I specifically requested eight hundred thread count, and this feels like prison linen! I could exfoliate with this!”

I smiled. “You could also exfoliate with sea salt and save us both the headache.”

That one didn’t make it past my lips. Barely.

Instead, I straightened my thrifted blazer—navy blue and a little too snug in the shoulders—and plastered on my guest service representative smile. The one that said, “I want to scream, but instead, I’ll help you because of capitalism.”

“I will personally see to it that Housekeeping replaces your sheets,” I said. “Would you like complimentary champagne while you wait?”

At this point, I was just trying everything to get her off the towel obsession... Like geez, it's just a towel for goodness' sake!

Pfft! Rich people and their problems.

She pointed one long manicured finger at my face. “Don't patronize me!” she snapped, her platinum-blonde bun bobbing like an angry bird nesting atop her head. “I stayed at the Grand Royale in Milan last month, and their towels were clouds. Yours feel like a loofah had a baby with a Brillo pad."

So... She was not letting go of the towel talk.

I inhaled through my nose. Think happy thoughts, Kaelia. Puppies. Rainbows. Lollipop.

“I’ll be happy to have housekeeping bring you a softer set, ma’am," I said, biting back the urge to ask if she wanted me to pre-warm them with my body heat. "Perhaps a satin robe as well?"

Her mouth dropped open in shock as if what I just said offended her. “Are you trying to divert this conversation right now?”

Well. There went my last shard of patience.

"Ma’am," I said, my voice rising before my better judgment could shove a sock in it, "I can assure you that our towels are not responsible for your... epidermal distress. But if you feel personally victimized by the texture of luxury linens, might I suggest a spa appointment instead of yelling at the concierge?"

The lobby went dead silent. Even the fountain paused mid-trickle.

"Excuse me?"

Yep. That was it. Career suicide is signed and sealed in blood-stained thread count.

"You heard me," I said, arms folding despite myself. "This is a hotel, not a hostage situation. You’re welcome to check out and find a fluffier destiny elsewhere."

Her eyes bulged like she couldn’t decide whether to faint or sue. I could practically hear the Yelp review forming in her Botoxed brain.

Her eye twitched, her filler-filled lips thinning. “I want to speak to your manager.”

I just shrugged with my arms still crossed and said, “You know what? Fantastic. Let’s both talk to him. Maybe you can explain why your little Yorkie chewed through the mini-bar snacks and crapped in the lobby.”

Her jaw dropped. Somewhere in the distance, a bell dinged. I’d just clocked out of giving a damn.

****

Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting in my boss’s office, across from my supervisor Asher, who looked like he would rather be anywhere else.

“Kaelia,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You yelled at Mrs. Abney. That woman’s family owns three floors of this hotel.”

I folded my arms, still riled up. “She said I was a disgrace to hospitality because the sheets weren’t made of clouds and unicorn tears.”

Allen sighed. “She also said you implied she’d had too much Botox.”

I didn’t respond. Probably because that part was true.

“Customer satisfaction is not optional," he said, walking around the desk. He leaned against the edge, towering above me. "Neither is discretion. If every guest complaint becomes a sparring match, we lose clients."

"With all due respect, that woman accused me of ruining her skin barrier."

He pinched the bridge of his nose again. "I get it. She's... She's a lot. But next time, redirect. Please. Don't react."

I swallowed my pride and nodded.

“Take the rest of the day off," he said, voice softer now. "Cool down. Come back fresh tomorrow. We need you, Kaelia. You’re good at what you do."

That part? That stunned me.

Did he need me?

"Yes, sir," I murmured, standing.

He gave me a look—not quite a smile, not quite a reprimand. Just... thoughtful.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was how I found myself trudging down Post Street with my heels in my hand and my hair escaping its bun like a soap opera heroine.

“Fake bitches and their fake problems,” I muttered, turning into my apartment building. “Thread count. Seriously. She probably can’t count past ten without using her toes.”

I reached my door—and froze.

There, sticking out from under the frame like a smug little accusation, was a cream-colored envelope.

I didn’t need to pick it up to know what it was.

Rent. Again.

My hands were already full—supporting Mom back home, tossing whatever I could to the stray animal rescue fund, and generally trying to survive in a city where a salad costs twelve dollars. I made decent money at the hotel, sure. But San Francisco had a special talent for chewing up paychecks and spitting out broken dreams.

I opened the door and dragged myself in, dropping my bag on the couch.

“Dinner,” I mumbled to the fridge. “Please involve carbs and zero drama.”

I reached for the leftover pasta—just as the door burst open behind me.

“KAELIA BENNETT!”

I jerked. “Jesus, Lilyanna! Knock much?”

Lilyanna Russo stormed in like a Chanel-scented hurricane. All designer heels, glossy black hair, and dramatic flair. If I was an exhausted guest service representative in a secondhand blazer, she was an I*******m filter come to life.

“You are NOT going to believe what my parents are trying to pull," she huffed, flopping onto the couch like an offended cat. "Blind date. At the Montgomery Grand. Tonight. With some uptight real estate heir who probably collects cufflinks and speaks in golf metaphors."

"Sounds thrilling," I said, dragging a bottle of water from the fridge. "But why are you telling me this like it's my problem?"

She sat up and grinned.

Oh no.

That grin meant trouble. That grin meant fashion montages fake IDs and bail money.

“Because you’re going instead."

I blinked. "Come again?"

"I need you to pose as me. Bomb the date. Be awful. Make him run for the hills."

"Lily, I work at the Montgomery Grand. I can’t go on a blind date there like you. That’s social suicide!"

"Which is why you’re perfect," she said, digging through her designer purse. "Nobody will suspect a thing. Just wear one of my dresses, throw on a wig, and act like a lunatic."

“Absolutely not."

She froze mid-rummage. "I'll pay you."

I raised an eyebrow. "How much?"

She looked up, dead serious. "Thirty grand."

The water bottle slipped from my hand.

"What?"

"Thirty thousand dollars. Cash. You go on this date, act deranged, and make sure he never calls me again. That’s all."

My mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

That rent notice. My mother’s hospital bills. The cracked screen on my phone. My dwindling savings account. The stupid stray dog charity I couldn't stop donating to.

"Lilyanna... that's a lot of money."

She stood and stepped closer, her voice dropping.

"I need this. I can't let them arrange my love life. And you need the money. So why not? It’s just one dinner. You’ve dealt with worse guests at work. All you have to do is scare him off. Do your crazy towel lady impression."

I took a deep breath, my heartbeat quickening. “Give me a moment to think about this,” I muttered.

Lilyanna shook her head. “I don't think I have the time to leave you to think.”

I frowned. “Why?”

Lilyanna looked at me. “Because the dinner is tonight,” she answered.

What. The. Helly?

She whipped out her phone and opened her banking app. “Say the word and it’s transferred. I need someone I trust, someone who won’t actually fall for this guy—”

“You think I’m that emotionally constipated?”

“Kaelia,” she said, sweetly, “you cried over a lost kitten commercial last week.”

Fair point.

“But this guy is loaded. Parents want to merge empires or something. If I tank the dinner, they’ll stop trying to marry me off like I’m in some kind of corporate Cinderella.”

I looked at the rent notice. Then at the fridge. Then at her.

“Thirty grand?”

“Yup.”

“Outfit, wig, dinner at the fanciest rooftop restaurant in the city?”

“Yes, yes, and yes.”

I exhaled. “Fine. But if I get recognized, I’m blaming your eyebrows.”

“They’re microbladed perfection.”

“Exactly. Too perfect. Suspiciously perfect.”

Lilyanna clapped, her entire face bright with glee. “Dont worry, I'm sure the date would be something... unforgettable."

God help me.

Because this was how I was going to die: in a bad wig, pretending to be my best friend.

And that was before things got weird.