The Billionaire Unexpected Bride

The towering iron gates of the Whoitmore estate stood like silent sentinels, casting long shadows under the fading light of the evening. The grandeur of the mansion beyond them was a sight that almost stopped me in my tracks.

A sprawling masterpiece of architecture, it loomed against the horizon, its elegant arches and pristine marble walls radiating wealth and untouchable power. My palms were clammy as I clutched the crumpled piece of paper in my hand, the one that bore the name "Mrs. Jennings." A security guard stepped forward, his sharp gaze taking me in from head to toe. "Who are you, and what do you want?" he barked, his tone clipped. "I'm here to see Mrs. Jennings," I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite the knot forming in my throat.

The guard gave a curt nod, picked up his radio, and spoke into it. Moments later, he gestured for me to wait. As I stood awkwardly in the shadow of the estate's grand entrance, a sleek black limousine rolled through the gates, flanked by two glossy SUVs. My breath hitched. The procession was a spectacle of wealth and influence, every vehicle gleaming under the fading sunlight.

The limousine came to a halt just a few feet from where I stood, and my pulse quickened. The rear door opened, and out stepped a man whose very presence seemed to command attention. Andrew Sinclair. The son of the wealthiest CEO in the country, Andrew's reputation preceded him. He was more than just the heir to an empire, he was a figure of intrigue and power.

His jet-black hair was impeccably styled, his sharp jawline clean-shaven, and his tailored navy suit clung to his athletic frame with precision. A Rolex glinted on his wrist as he casually adjusted his cufflinks, his piercing blue eyes scanning the estate with a practiced indifference. He exuded authority, as though the world itself bent to accommodate his stride. Flanked by bodyguards, he walked past me without so much as a glance, his attention fixed on his phone.

Despite his aloofness, there was something magnetic about him, something that made it impossible to look away. "Amelia! Are you paying attention?" The sharp voice jolted me back to reality. I turned to see a stern woman approaching. Her presence was as sharp as her features, her posture rigid and commanding. This had to be Mrs. Jennings. "You must listen carefully and follow my instructions," she said briskly, her eyes narrowing as she took me in. "Yes, ma'am," I murmured, falling in step behind her.

The interior of the Whoitmore mansion was even more opulent than I'd imagined. Crystal chandeliers dangled from vaulted ceilings, casting soft rainbows on the marble floors. Gold-accented furniture and priceless artwork lined the walls, each piece seemingly more valuable than the last. It was a world I didn't belong to, yet here I was, stepping into it as though I had a place.

Mrs. Jennings led me to the staff quarters and handed me a neatly folded uniform and a list of rules. "You'll be assisting Miss Celia Whitmore," she explained curtly. "You're responsible for her clothing, meals, and any errands she requires. Do you understand?" "Yes, ma'am," I said, though the weight of the responsibility already pressed down on my chest. "Good. Get started immediately." As I moved through the labyrinth of the estate, I couldn't help but marvel at its size and grandeur. Every corner seemed to hold a secret, every hallway whispered of untold stories. But my admiration was short-lived. "Why didn't anyone wake me earlier?" a shrill voice cut through the air, laced with irritation. I turned to see Celia Whoitmore descending the grand staircase, her fiery red hair cascading in perfect waves over her shoulders.

Her emerald-green dress clung to her figure, and her heels clicked sharply against the marble steps. She was every inch the picture of wealth and privilege, her piercing gaze scanning the room like a hawk. Trailing behind her was Andrew Sinclair, his expression unreadable, yet his presence as commanding as ever. "I told you I don't like being rushed!" Celia snapped, her anger directed at Mrs. Jennings. "My apologies, Miss Celia," Mrs. Jennings said with practiced calm. "But Mr. Sinclair is waiting." Celia huffed dramatically and spun on her heel, storming back up the stairs. Andrew, however, lingered in the living room, his focus glued to his phone as though the world around him didn't exist. Hoping to make myself useful, I decided to bring him a glass of water.

With trembling hands, I placed it on the table in front of him. "Here you go, sir," I whispered, my voice barely audible. He didn't even look up. "Amelia!" Mrs. Jennings's voice cut through the silence like a blade. She marched toward me, her face a mask of disapproval. "What do you think you're doing?" she hissed. "I-I just thought..." "Don't think. You act when instructed. This place is not for you to make assumptions." "Yes, ma'am," I said quickly, backing away as heat flushed my cheeks. A few minutes later, Celia descended the staircase again, her arm looping possessively through Andrew's as she flashed him a dazzling smile. "Shall we?" she asked, her voice sweet but tinged with impatience. As they headed toward the door, I busied myself cleaning up the glass of water I'd brought earlier. In my haste, my hand slipped, and the glass tipped over, spilling water onto Andrew's pristine suit. The room went silent.

Andrew turned slowly, his icy blue eyes locking onto mine with a sharpness that made my stomach drop. For the first time, his calm demeanor cracked, revealing an edge of cold intensity. "I'm so sorry!" I stammered, my hands trembling as I scrambled to clean up the mess. Celia's laughter rang out, breaking the tension. "How clumsy," she said with a smirk, her green eyes glinting with amusement.

Mrs. Jennings seized my arm and pulled me aside. "Apologize and leave. Now," she whispered harshly. "I'm so sorry," I murmured again, my voice barely above a whisper, before retreating as fast as my feet would carry me.

That evening, as I sat in the staff quarters, trying to shake off the humiliation of the day, Mrs. Jennings entered with a grave expression. "Amelia, you're in trouble," she said, her tone leaving no room for doubt. "What do you mean?" "Miss Celia has requested to see you. Immediately." My heart plummeted. What could Celia possibly want with me? As I stood to follow Mrs. Jennings, dread settled like a heavy stone in my chest.