Paid to Simp for the Billionaire

I've been simping over Sebastian Ashford for three years.

Everyone at Hartwell knows it. I cook for him. I do his laundry. I've written every elective he's too bored to take himself.

At a party last week, someone finally asked him to his face:

Sebastian. Maeve's been chasing you for three years. You seriously don't feel anything?

In the low light, I heard him laugh under his breath.

"Her? She's just the help. Why would I feel anything?"

The whole room howled.

Here's the part none of them know.

Sebastian Ashford pays me eight thousand dollars a month.

I'm not down bad. I'm not his simp.

I'm his very, very well-paid live-in assistant.

Chapter 1

The day I met Sebastian Ashford, I was at the lowest point of my life.

Dad had shattered his leg on a construction site. Mom was nursing him and working three jobs until the afternoon she passed out cold. One more bad week and I'd have dropped out to work full-time.

Then Sebastian showed up, said he needed a live-in assistant, and asked if I could handle it.

"Yes, sir! Laundry, cooking, scrubbing floors and toilets I can do all of it!"

He almost smiled. "You won't be scrubbing toilets." A beat. "And drop the 'sir.'"

"Got it. Boss?"

He didn't object. And just like that, I had the best-paying job of my life.

Boss fronted me three months up front without blinking. Twenty-four thousand dollars.

Exactly what my dad's surgery cost.

After that, I gave the job everything.

Up at six. Full breakfast cooked and carried to his building. His clothes hand-washed, pressed, folded into perfect stacks. Dessert twice a week low-sugar, four kinds of fresh fruit minimum, exactly to spec. Dinner with friends? I booked the room and pre-ordered the menu before he finished asking.

Most people simp for free. I had benefits and a pay stub.

The whole campus had opinions.

Down bad. Zero self-respect. Pathetic.

I just smiled and kept clocking in.

I mean I was doing my job. Was I not doing my job?

Boss had another dinner with his roommates. That afternoon he texted: [They want to drink. Find somewhere quiet. Reply when you get this.]

I tapped back: [Copy.]

Then I found a restaurant, booked a private room, and sent over the address. [Need a car?]

[Driving myself.]

[You're drinking, though. Let me book you a DD.]

He sent a voice memo instead. "Forget it. You come too. Drive me home after."

[K.]

I'd gotten my license the year before. For work, obviously.

Sebastian dropped into the passenger seat and shut his eyes. I picked up his three roommates at the campus gate. They looked at me like they'd seen a ghost.

"Maeve? You're coming too?"

I shook my head. "Just dropping you off. I'll come back for you when you're done."

One of them clicked his tongue. "That's that's next-level simping, sis. You really don't have to."

Without opening his eyes, Sebastian cut in. "Maeve. You planning to sit here until we catch a ticket?"

The needling stopped. I apologized and pulled into traffic.

Funny how it always stopped the second he said something.

The assistant thing he'd made me keep it quiet. One rule, that was the whole job.

"Money changes how people look at you," he'd said. "A rumor like that helps neither of us. Easier to just let them think you're my simp. You've got the paycheck, I get the service. Nobody loses."

I agreed, obviously. He was the boss, a very generous boss, so whatever he said went.

A secret this big, dressed up as a crush for the whole campus to laugh at. What could possibly go wrong.

Chapter 2

It wasn't just his roommates. A few classmates from their major showed up too.

A few drinks in, they started a round of Truth or Dare. Sebastian drew Truth.

A girl named Sloane Pierce went first. "Sebastian. Maeve's been chasing you forever. You really don't feel anything?"

"No."

"Why not? She's pretty. Not your type?"

He laughed softly. "Her? She's just the help. Why would I feel anything?"

I looked over and caught Sloane's eyes bright with satisfaction.

That night, I landed on the campus confessions page.

[M.B. the campus heartthrob has made it crystal clear he's not interested. Please stop clinging.]

[To a certain Miss Brooks: have a little self-respect. This isn't a good look on a girl.]

[Will the Brooks girl kindly stop harassing Sebastian Ashford.]

I almost threw my phone.

A rumor like this could literally cost me my job!

I messaged Boss, fast: [Sorry about the confessions page. I'll have it handled within three days.]

Sebastian: [Noted.]

Then, a second later: [This is annoying. Just be my girlfriend instead.]

My phone hit the floor.

Boss. No. Absolutely not.

That's how you go from a paid assistant to an unpaid one???

I texted back: [Respectfully declining.]

The post was almost certainly Sloane. She liked Sebastian, found out I brought him food every day, and decided to compete.

She'd even baked him cookies and macarons by hand once.

Which Boss assumed were from me.

He'd handed me the pink box. "These are good but stop making them, I nearly chipped a tooth. The tiramisu was better."

I'd explained, mortified. "Boss, I didn't make these. There's a card in the bag. Probably from someone with a crush?"

His brow furrowed. "Someone else made them?"

I nodded.

He landed somewhere between annoyed and amused. "Maeve. Someone sends me food. What does that tell you?"

"That you're handsome?"

"No." He crossed his arms. "It tells you she's doing part of your job. You should be worried about your position."

My fork stopped halfway to my mouth.

"But Boss, other people confessing to you surely that's not my department"

"No?" He gave me a flat look. "You're officially my simp. Shouldn't handling the competition come with the title? Or am I not paying you enough?"

"You are! You are! New plan: anyone confesses, I go talk to them, get them to drop it. Deal?"

"Suit yourself."

You take the money, you handle the problems.

Three minutes later, Sebastian handed me an entire crate of love letters.

"No idea who they're all from. Deal with it."

I did a rough count. Somewhere north of a hundred.

Um.

The workload was looking a little aggressive.

He turned to leave. I grabbed his sleeve.

"Boss! Hold on. About this whole love-rival situation I think we're going to need a longer-term strategy."

Chapter 3

Sebastian's birthday was coming up.

One of his roommates suddenly asked what I was getting him.

I hadn't planned on getting him anything I'm a fake simp, remember. I don't actually like him. But then again you do have to keep the boss happy. Office politics. You can't just skip the boss's birthday.

The roommates clustered around me, all chirping at once.

"Mae, you can't let Sloane outdo you."

"Word is she's going big for the heartthrob's birthday."

"I heard she made him a brooch by hand real gems, crazy expensive!"

My head started to hurt.

Spend real money on a gift for Sebastian? Not a chance. That's the whole point running backwards.

So I posted online: [Hey guys, my boss's birthday is coming up what do I get him?]

Every single reply: [A gold bar. A bottle of Macallan. Cuban cigars.]

Something felt off.

So I posted again: [Hey guys the guy I'm into has a birthday coming up. Gift ideas? He's loaded, I'm broke, keep it cheap.]

[Are you okay? Broke and chasing a rich guy?]

[Broke AND cheap.]

[Get him a penthouse.]

Then, buried in the roasting, one actually-kind comment:

[Make something by hand. Knit him a scarf or something.]

A scarf was actually a great idea. Cheap and useful.

One problem: I didn't have the time.

So I opened Etsy. Searched: [custom hand-knit scarf.]

People actually sell these?

You could even choose beginner or expert.

I went with the pure-beginner package. The seller guaranteed it would come out lumpy and crooked unmistakably handmade.

I swear, all I wanted was to use one ugly scarf to show the boss a little loyalty.

How was I supposed to know he'd actually wear it?

Sir. Was the beige Loro Piana I dropped at the dry cleaner last week not soft enough? Were the two Burberry checks I pressed for you not stylish enough? Why is there a 0-05, pumpkin-orange, lumpy-cable, custom-knit Etsy scarf sitting beneath your very distinguished head?

To make up for it, I rush-ordered the $40 expert package.

When Sebastian got the second scarf, something complicated moved across his face.

"Nice work. Don't make any more."

That was when I noticed the little red bumps along his neck.

Oh no. Had 0-05 worth of polyester given his aristocratic throat a rash?

And he'd kept it on anyway.

A serious crime on my part. I bought ointment, fast, and held it out with both hands. "I'm so sorry!"

Sebastian just sat there, cool as ever, making no move to take it.

I waited. And waited. Finally:

"Maeve. What are you waiting for? You expect me to put it on myself?"

"Oh right." I twisted off the cap, scooped out a dab of cool ointment, and smoothed it gently over the red skin.

My finger brushed his throat and stopped there.

He went still. So did I. One second where neither of us moved.

Then he cleared his throat. "Actually I'll do it myself."

But on my way out his ears, red enough to bleed.

Chapter 4

Sebastian Ashford was the genuine article old-money heir, the whole package.

His family threw him a massive birthday party, the kind where the room is wall-to-wall old money. None of which had anything to do with me.

Except Sebastian told me to come on Saturday.

I'd barely started objecting when his eyes cut over. "It's your boss's birthday. If you're not going, who is?"

"Boss, doesn't your family have, like, several housekeepers? What would I even do there?"

"Team-building with my live-in staff. You got a problem with that?"

I got a headache and a half. Saturday team-building. At the boss's house. Outstanding.

Then he added, "And buy yourself something nice. Don't show up looking shabby."

I had exactly one question. "Boss can I expense it?"

He hesitated, then: "Forget it. I'll take you myself. Your taste is a little concerning."

Mock me all you want. As long as it's reimbursed, you're a great boss.

But who could have guessed Sebastian picked me out a dress that cost sixty thousand dollars.

A $60,000 dress. That's what, seven, eight months of my salary? On one dress.

I held the price tag with trembling fingers. "Boss. You're really expensing this. Right?"

Sebastian flicked me on the forehead and told the salesgirl, "Card."

I'll admit it. Best word in the English language.

A sixty-grand dress who wouldn't love it? I figured I could get fifty years out of it.

Sebastian hadn't invited any classmates, but at the Ashford estate, I spotted Sloane.

She came flutter-stepping over in a white tulle dress, arms already out. "Sebastian!"

Smack.

Sloane wiped out in the dead center of the ballroom. Face-first.

Turns out floors polished to a mirror shine aren't always a good thing. For a second she just lay there, splayed across the marble, and the whole room turned to look. Color drained out of her face faster than it had gone in.

I went over to help her up and didn't get a single word of thanks. She burst into tears and threw herself straight into Sebastian's arms.

Sebastian held both hands up in the air, shooting me looks.

"Miss Pierce." I peeled her off him. "Sebastian's jacket is wrinkled. It needs attention."

For half a second nobody said anything. Sloane stood there with her arms still half-raised toward a man who'd already stepped back, and a few guests near us went very interested in their drinks.

Right then Sloane let out another cry. "My birthday gift I spent weeks on it, and it broke when I fell!"

I glanced down. This would be the legendary brooch Sloane designed and made herself.

There's something I'm not sure I should say out loud.

Sebastian doesn't strike me as a pink-diamond-bow-brooch kind of guy.

The Ashford butler stepped in right on cue. "Miss Pierce, let me take you to the lounge to see to that cut. I'll have your gift repaired don't you worry."

Then he turned to me. "And this young lady is?"

Sebastian answered for me. "Her name's Brooks. She's a classmate."

The butler beamed. "Miss Brooks. A pleasure."

I shook his hand, thinking: Sir, you should be my supervisor. Just call me Mae. Ha.

I'd tucked myself into a corner with a slice of cake when Sloane came drifting over.

She nodded toward an old-money beauty in a pink strapless mermaid gown. "See her? Genevieve Devereux. The family's pick to marry Sebastian."

I nodded thoughtfully. Ah. The future Mrs. Boss.

Sloane looked me up and down, contempt all over her face. "Look at yourself, Maeve. How could you ever compete with her?"

? I wasn't trying to compete with anyone?

Chapter 5

Sloane, it turned out, was wearing the same label as Genevieve same collection, even the same necklace.

That was when Genevieve came over to us.

She made warm, easy small talk, then introduced herself. "I'm Genevieve Devereux. You're both Sebastian's age, I'd guess? I'm a little older already graduated. I'm a jeweler now."

Sloane's face darkened a shade.

No wonder she'd hand-designed a brooch for him. So that's who she'd been measuring herself against this whole time.

Genevieve handed me a glass of red. "Try this. I brought it from home."

I took a sip and met her watching eyes.

I praised it. "Good wine. Really good."

A gentle smile. She smoothed the hair off her shoulder. "It's nothing. Just something I make for fun."

She passed me a second glass. "And this one?"

I forced it down and praised that too. "Also good."

In truth, I couldn't tell a thing. I'd had red wine maybe twice in my life.

Genevieve turned the ring on her finger, slow, and spoke at her own unhurried pace. "You're all young. I don't keep score. Sloane can spar with me however she likes I never bother."

"But you Maeve. I don't like things sitting too close to Sebastian."

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