Upgrading To My Billionaire Boss Chapter 1

My mother had just come back from the house next door, having spent the afternoon snooping on our neighbor’s son and his new blind date. She walked into the kitchen, looking at me with a mixture of pity and pure, unadulterated frustration.

"I honestly don't know where I went wrong with you," she sighed, dumping her coat on the chair. "I told you for years to carpool with Sebastian back to the city. I practically handed him to you on a silver platter, and you couldn't even manage to snag a guy like that."

I kept my eyes on the bowl of sunflower seeds I was cracking, rhythmic and steady.

"Now look at you," she continued, her voice rising. "He’s got a real girlfriend now. A high-society match. Once they're official, do you think he’ll still want to give you a lift? I spent weeks curing this ham and smoking these ribs for you to take back to your apartment. How on earth do you plan on hauling this bag of meat onto a bus by yourself?"

"Then I won't take it," I said, not looking up.

"What?"

"I said I’m not taking the ham, Mom. Leave it."

I meant it. For the last ten years, every pound of meat my mother had painstakingly prepared for me had ended up in Sebastian’s refrigerator anyway. We had been together in secret for a decade—a "situationship" that spanned our entire adult lives.

But three days ago, on the drive back home for the holidays, I finally snapped. Somewhere on a desolate stretch of I-95, I started crying. I asked him, for the hundredth time, when we were finally going to tell our parents. When we were going to get married.

Sebastian hated that word. "Marriage" was the only thing that could make him go from charming to cold in seconds. Without a word, he pulled over at a rest stop, told me to get out to "clear my head," and then he simply drove away.

I texted him two words later that night: It’s over.

He replied with one: Fine.

* * *

When I told my mother I didn't want the ham, she exploded. She slammed the heavy bag onto the linoleum floor and glared at me.

"You don't want it? Do you have any idea how much work went into this? The trips to the butcher, the hours over the smoker? You’re so selfish, Isabel. You never think about how hard I work for you."

She started to pace, her favorite weapon—my age—ready to be drawn.

"You’re twenty-eight. Every year I try to set you up, and every year it’s the same thing: 'I’m not ready, I like being single.' Do you know what the neighbors say about me? They think I’m hiding a daughter with a defect because you're still alone."

She began to cry, the practiced, heavy sobs of a woman who knew exactly how to trigger my guilt.

The familiar tightness gripped my chest. This was her cycle: I disappointed her, so she attacked my life. I reached into the box on the counter and handed her a couple of tissues.

"Fine. Stop crying," I said, exhausted. "I’ll go. I’ll register at that matchmaking service your friend runs. Whatever makes you happy."

To prove my "sincerity," I went to my room, changed out of my sweats, and put on a full face of makeup. But when I stepped back into the living room, her lip curled.

"No wonder Sebastian never looked twice at you," she scoffed. "Even with all that paint on your face, you look... plain. You should have seen the girl he brought home today. Long, lean legs, a perfect oval face—she looked like a doll. Polished. Classy."

My mother had spent my entire life comparing me to every girl in the neighborhood. The results were always the same: I was the "before" picture. If a girl was dumber than me, she was prettier. If she was shorter, her face was daintier. I was used to her barbs, but hearing her compare me to Sebastian’s new "official" woman made my throat ache.

Because for the seven years we were actually "dating," Sebastian had looked at me with that exact same expression of subtle, lingering disappointment.