Upgrading To My Billionaire Boss

My mother had just come back from the house next door, having spent the afternoon snooping on our neighbors 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. "Hes got a real girlfriend now. A high-society match. Once they're official, do you think hell 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 Im 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 Sebastians refrigerator anyway. We had been together in secret for a decadea "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: Its 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? Youre so selfish, Isabel. You never think about how hard I work for you."

She started to pace, her favorite weaponmy ageready to be drawn.

"Youre twenty-eight. Every year I try to set you up, and every year its the same thing: 'Im not ready, I like being single.' Do you know what the neighbors say about me? They think Im 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. "Ill go. Ill 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 faceshe 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 Sebastians 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.

Sebastian and I started our secret life when we were eighteen.

He was the valedictorian, the golden boy destined for the Ivy League. I was the girl in the middle of the packaverage grades, average looks, mostly invisible. Id had a crush on him for years, a quiet ache I never intended to share.

But on the day of our high school graduation, my lab partner came up to me with a letter, confessing hed liked me since freshman year. Sebastian had appeared out of nowhere, grabbed my hand, and told the guy, "Sorry, shes already taken." He dragged me behind the gym, kissed me for the first time, and told me he loved me.

He even chose a university in the same city as mine. We stayed together for ten years.

If my mother hadn't called me mid-drive three days ago to nag me about my biological clock, I might not have pushed him. I might not have asked him if this was the year wed finally tell everyone the truth.

Id phrased it as a question, a soft probe. But Sebastian had erupted.

"Isabel, is there a factory reset button in your brain? Is marriage and babies all youre capable of thinking about? I told you, Im not even considering that until Im thirty. Stop being so desperate."

Then hed left me at a Starbucks in the middle of nowhere. He didn't care how Id get home. He didn't care that my phone charger was still in his glove box. He just sent a text ninety minutes later saying my luggage was with the buildings security guard.

That was the moment I realized I was done.

The next day, I heard the news: Sebastian was going on a blind date.

"You're right, Mom," I said, the words feeling like glass in my mouth. "I can't compete with a girl like that. So stop trying to push us together. Im not in his league."

I walked out the front door to get some air, only to find Sebastian leaning against his porch railing, lighting a cigarette. When he saw me, he instinctively dropped the butt and crushed it under his shoe, looking guilty.

It was a habit from our ten years together. I hated the smell of smoke, so Id spent a decade trying to get him to quit. Hed always promised he would. He never did; he just got better at hiding it on balconies and street corners.

Looking at him now, I realized how much energy Id wasted. I shouldn't have tried to change a smoker; I should have just found a man who didn't smoke. Just like I shouldn't have tried to force a man to love me out loud.

I looked away, trying to pull my mother past him, but she broke free, her eyes sparkling with gossip.

"Oh, Sebastian! Is that girl still inside? I saw her through the windowwhat a stunner. A Masters student, right? Perfect for a PhD like you. And shes tall, too! You need a tall woman to match those six-foot-two genes of yours. Don't be too picky, shes a catch."

Sebastian glanced at me, a cruel, mocking smirk playing on his lips.

"She is a catch," he said, his voice loud enough for me to feel it. "Shes graceful, polite, and actually understands how the world works. She isn't the type to throw a tantrum and demand a ring every five minutes like some hysterical woman."

The insult hit me like a physical blow. I tightened my grip on my mothers arm.

"Mom, stop bothering him. Don't we have a meeting with that matchmaker? Lets go."

I didn't look at him. I started walking, but Sebastians voice followed me down the driveway.

"Yeah, Isabel! Don't be too picky at the dating agency! Youre twenty-eight with a degree from a state school and a face thats... lets say, 'wholesome.' If any guy is willing to take you on, just say yes. Lord knows youre desperate enough to get hitched."

The pain was a sharp needle in my chest. For years, I told myself he wasn't marrying me because he was focused on his career. Now, I finally saw the truth: he never married me because he was ashamed of me. You don't say things like that to someone you respect.

My mother seemed to agree with him. As we walked toward the car, she muttered, "See? Even Sebastian says it. Your 'market value' is low, Isabel. If this guy today is even halfway decent, you say yes. Don't go acting like you're some big-city hotshot. In two years, youll be an old maid, and not even a divorcee will want you."

The numbness in my heart turned into a blinding, white-hot rage. My nails dug into my palms.

"If Im so pathetic," I screamed, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, "then why did you even have me? If my face is ugly and my brain is slow, whose genes do you think gave them to me?"

My mother froze, shocked by the outburst. I wiped the tears that were already betraying me and turned, running toward the main road. I didn't have a destination. I hadn't lived here in years; I didn't know where the "cool" spots were anymore. I just needed to be away from her.

I ended up in a small, quiet coffee shop on the edge of town. No sooner had I sat down than my phone buzzed. A text from my mother: Have you lost your mind? Talking to me like that. You have no respect.

I stared at the screen, tempted to block her, but I lacked the courage. Instead, I opened Instagram. Sebastian had posted.

It was a photo of him and the girl at a high-end steakhouse. She was exactly as described: gorgeous, trendy, perfect. But it wasn't her beauty that hurt. It was the fact that hed posted her at all.

In ten years, I had never appeared on his social media. He said he wanted to "keep things private" from family and coworkers. The truth was, I was the girl he hid; she was the girl he wore like a trophy.

I remembered a night three years ago. We ran into one of his colleagues at a bar. Sebastian didn't just let go of my handhe practically shoved me away. He introduced me as "a girl from back home."

When we fought about it later, he just handed me a stack of GRE prep books.

"If you want people to respect you, you have to be worth respecting," hed said coldly. "You want to go public? Get into a Masters program. Show me youre more than just a girl with a secretary's salary."

I stared into my latte, a tear splashing into the foam. Id tried so hard to be what he wanted, but I was never going to be an academic. I was never going to be "elite."

"Im sorry, I don't mean to intrude, but... Isabel?"

I looked up, blinking through the blur. A man was standing there, wearing a soft wool sweater and wire-rimmed glasses. He looked familiarkind, steady eyes. It took a moment for the memory to click.

Nathaniel. My high school lab partner. The one Sebastian had chased away.

"I... Im sorry," I stammered, standing up and wiping my face.

He gave me a gentle, lopsided smile. "I should be the one apologizing. I can see you wanted to be alone, but I couldn't just walk past while you were crying."

I didn't know what to say. He gestured toward the door. "Sitting here will only make the thoughts louder. Come on. Let's go for a walk. Just a distraction, I promise."

I should have said no. I should have gone home. But the thought of my mother and the shadow of Sebastian felt like a weight I couldn't carry alone. So, I followed Nathaniel out.

The town didn't have much. We walked through the local park, looking at the depressing enclosures of the small zoo and the ducks in the pond. I was quiet, mostly lost in my own head, but Nathaniel didn't seem to mind.

For the first time in years, I felt... relaxed.

With Sebastian, every outing was a performance. I bought the tickets, I picked the snacks, I did the research, and I spent the whole time monitoring his mood, terrified hed get bored or annoyed.

With Nathaniel, when I wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead, he was already handing me a clean handkerchief. He asked if I was thirsty, if I wanted to sit in the shade. He was looking at me.

When he asked me to catch a movie later that evening, I found myself saying yes.

But as we approached the theater, the universe decided to twist the knife. Sebastian was there, standing at the ticket booth with the new girl. He was holding her designer bag on one shoulder and two drinks in his hands, leaning in to ask her which movie she wanted to see.

When she pointed to a romantic comedy, he smiled and bought the tickets immediately.

My chest tightened. In seven years, Sebastian never asked what I wanted to see. He chose the sci-fi epics or the gritty dramas he liked. If I ever suggested a rom-com, hed scoff. "Your brain is mushy enough, Isabel. Lets watch something that requires a bit of intelligence, shall we?"

"Do you still want to go in?" Nathaniel asked softly, noticing my frozen posture. "We can leave."

I nodded, ready to turn around, but Sebastian spotted us.

"Isabel? Is this the 'match' your mom found for you? Small world. Won't you introduce us?"

I clenched my fists so hard my knuckles went white. Seeing the girl, Monica, tucked under his arm was a special kind of hell.

Before I could respond, Monica stepped forward with a bright, plastic smile. "Oh, you must be the childhood friend Sebastian grew up with! Im Monica. He was just telling me so many 'fun' stories about you. Ive been dying to meet the famous Isabel. Sebastian, lets skip the movie. Let's go get drinks with them instead!"

I wanted to scream no, but Sebastian smirked. "Great idea. Id love to get to know Isabels new 'friend' better."

He didn't even wait for us to agree. He just led the way to a nearby patio bar.

We sat at a wooden picnic table. Sebastian immediately took a napkin and meticulously wiped down the spot in front of Monica before letting her sit. Then he looked at Nathaniel.

"So, Nateits Nate, right? Youre not much for the chivalry, are you? Didn't even wipe the table for your date."

Nathaniel didn't take the bait. He just took a sip of his water. "I don't feel the need to perform for an audience."

He handed me the menu. "What do you feel like, Isabel?"

"Shell eat anything," Sebastian interrupted. "Shes not picky. Mostly just fried stuff."

I wasn't "not picky." I had just spent a decade making my preferences invisible so he wouldn't have to compromise.

"Actually," I said, my voice trembling slightly, "I want the spicy wings. And the jalape?o poppers."

I ordered three of the spiciest things on the menu.

Monica giggled. "Oh, Isabel, thats so much food for four people. Why don't we just do one order of wings? Sebastian and I don't do spicyits so bad for the skin."

"Yeah, cancel the spicy stuff," Sebastian said to the waitress, dismissively. "She doesn't even like heat. Shes just acting out."

I felt the blood rush to my face, the familiar humiliation burning under my skin. But Nathaniel spoke up, his voice cool and firm. "Keep the order. Im paying for our half, and I happen to love spicy food."

The table went quiet for a second. Then Monica leaned forward, her eyes glinting with a mean sort of curiosity.

"So, Isabel, Sebastian told me your nickname in high school was 'The Dairy Queen.' I thought it was because you were... well, endowed. But looking at you now, I guess youre more of a B-cup? What was that about?"

She laughed, a sharp, tinkling sound. "Oh! And the story about your first big job interview! The one where you got so nervous you actually had a... 'bathroom accident' in your suit? And the recruiter told you the reason you didn't get the job was the smell? God, Sebastian, you were right, that is the funniest thing Ive ever heard."

The world seemed to stop.

I looked at Sebastian. He wouldn't meet my eyes. He was busy cutting a piece of steak for Monica, a casual, bored expression on his face. "A jokes a joke, Monica. Let the girl eat."

The tears started then, hot and heavy.

Those two stories were the "get out of jail free" cards I had given Sebastian for years.

"The Dairy Queen" happened when I was sixteen. A bully had snapped my bra strap in the hall, and because it was right before gym class, I had to run the mile without support. The boys had circled me, screaming that name while I tried to cover myself. Sebastian had gotten into a fistfight to protect me. Hed been my hero.

And the interview? I had been so sick with the flu, but I didn't want to miss the chance. Id called him sobbing from the corporate bathroom, and he had come to pick me up without a single word of judgment.

I had stayed with him through every insult and every cold night because I thought those moments meant he truly knew me. He was the keeper of my most vulnerable secrets.

And he had turned them into dinner party anecdotes for a girl hed known for three days.

The hope Id been clutchingthe tiny, pathetic part of me that thought he might realize he missed medied right there on that patio.

I stood up, grabbed my bag, and walked away.

"Isabel! Don't be so sensitive!" Sebastian shouted after me. "It was just a joke! God, you're so dramatic!"

I didn't turn back. I kept walking. Sebastian was right about one thing: it was a joke. Our entire ten years had been a joke. And I was finally done being the punchline.