Serving My Ex's Engagement Party - Chapter 1: Chapter 1
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I shuffled home in my ratty coral pajamas, arms loaded with grocery bags, when Randall DeLeon's sleek sports car pulled up beside me.
"Seriously?" He smirked, eyeing my disheveled state. "This is your upgrade? Trading me for a maid's uniform?"
Before I could fire back, a tiny tornado crashed into my legs. "Mommy! Who's the grumpy man?"
Randall's face darkened like a thundercloud as he lunged forward. "Is. He. Mine?"
I hugged the boy tighter. "Five years apart, Randall. Do the math—this isn't your kid."
The irony wasn't lost on me. Of all days to run into my ex, it had to be when I looked like a sleep-deprived college student hauling discount ramen. Nearby, my neighbor's son happily demolished a bucket of fried chicken while Randall's icy stare drilled holes into my soul.
I gulped my soda like it was liquid courage. The clock ticked toward my shift—three more minutes and I'd lose a day's pay.
"Randell..." I hesitated, suddenly hyperaware of his thousand-dollar suit versus my thrift-store pajamas. "Mr. DeLeon, I've got work. Unless you need something...?"
"Mr. DeLeon?" His chuckle sent shivers down my spine.
Little Alistair chose that moment to tug my sleeve. "Mommyyy, can we go now?"
Bless that child. I bolted upright. "You heard him. Raincheck?"
But Randall tailed us to his Lamborghini. "Hop in. I'll drive you."
Translation: Let me see how far you've fallen.
The entire housing complex gawked as his six-figure car idled outside my crumbling apartment. I mumbled thanks and fled upstairs—only to find him still there when I rushed down fifteen minutes later, leaning against his hood with a cigarette dangling from his lips.
Since when did he smoke?
"Late for your next disaster?" He smirked as I power-walked past.
I checked my phone—$100 late fee looming. "Fine. Seraphine Manors. Now."
His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. "The hell are you going there?"
I flashed my fakest pageant smile. "To scrub toilets, just like you said."
The silence thickened until we reached the gilded gates. As I reached for the door handle, his voice cut through the tension: "Regret your choice yet?"
I met those stormy eyes head-on. "Not even a little."
We met during my delivery girl days—a scholarship student crashing a frat-boy bet in some VIP lounge. The moment I pushed through that door with their fried chicken, the room erupted:
"No way! Even the takeout girl's a knockout!"
"Pay up, DeLeon! Your turn!"
And there he was—campus royalty, Deleon Group heir, and my personal kryptonite. Randall sauntered over with that trademark smirk. "How about a date, gorgeous?"
I shoved the greasy bag into his hands. "Order #42. Enjoy."
Then I bolted. In a neighborhood packed with trust-fund babies, you learn to run first, ask questions never.
"Seriously?" He smirked, eyeing my disheveled state. "This is your upgrade? Trading me for a maid's uniform?"
Before I could fire back, a tiny tornado crashed into my legs. "Mommy! Who's the grumpy man?"
Randall's face darkened like a thundercloud as he lunged forward. "Is. He. Mine?"
I hugged the boy tighter. "Five years apart, Randall. Do the math—this isn't your kid."
The irony wasn't lost on me. Of all days to run into my ex, it had to be when I looked like a sleep-deprived college student hauling discount ramen. Nearby, my neighbor's son happily demolished a bucket of fried chicken while Randall's icy stare drilled holes into my soul.
I gulped my soda like it was liquid courage. The clock ticked toward my shift—three more minutes and I'd lose a day's pay.
"Randell..." I hesitated, suddenly hyperaware of his thousand-dollar suit versus my thrift-store pajamas. "Mr. DeLeon, I've got work. Unless you need something...?"
"Mr. DeLeon?" His chuckle sent shivers down my spine.
Little Alistair chose that moment to tug my sleeve. "Mommyyy, can we go now?"
Bless that child. I bolted upright. "You heard him. Raincheck?"
But Randall tailed us to his Lamborghini. "Hop in. I'll drive you."
Translation: Let me see how far you've fallen.
The entire housing complex gawked as his six-figure car idled outside my crumbling apartment. I mumbled thanks and fled upstairs—only to find him still there when I rushed down fifteen minutes later, leaning against his hood with a cigarette dangling from his lips.
Since when did he smoke?
"Late for your next disaster?" He smirked as I power-walked past.
I checked my phone—$100 late fee looming. "Fine. Seraphine Manors. Now."
His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. "The hell are you going there?"
I flashed my fakest pageant smile. "To scrub toilets, just like you said."
The silence thickened until we reached the gilded gates. As I reached for the door handle, his voice cut through the tension: "Regret your choice yet?"
I met those stormy eyes head-on. "Not even a little."
We met during my delivery girl days—a scholarship student crashing a frat-boy bet in some VIP lounge. The moment I pushed through that door with their fried chicken, the room erupted:
"No way! Even the takeout girl's a knockout!"
"Pay up, DeLeon! Your turn!"
And there he was—campus royalty, Deleon Group heir, and my personal kryptonite. Randall sauntered over with that trademark smirk. "How about a date, gorgeous?"
I shoved the greasy bag into his hands. "Order #42. Enjoy."
Then I bolted. In a neighborhood packed with trust-fund babies, you learn to run first, ask questions never.
End of Serving My Ex's Engagement Party Chapter 1. Continue reading Chapter 2 or return to Serving My Ex's Engagement Party book page.