Page 2 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole

“We can make some room here,” I say, easing my hand onto Abigail’s thigh under the table, sending up a prayer that he’ll happily let me go this time. “Head back to our rooms for the night.”

“Ha.” He darts his eyes to me, letting out a quick laugh. “Thatattitude is exactly what’s wrong with your brother. That’s why he can’t find success.”

“Your brother?” Abigail asks, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

That’s how I like it to stay. I wish Dad hadn’t brought him up — talking about Brandon always puts him in a bad mood.

“Yes.” My father abandons his scan of the room and turns back to us, that familiar pinch in his brow appearing, as it always does, at the mention of his other son. “A cautionary tale — you give a kid too much, and he gets it in his head to give it all away.”

I squeeze Abigail’s thigh, a silent plea for her to find a different topic of conversation, but she doesn’t catch it. “Give it all away?”

“Yes.” Dad turns back to the party, bringing his glass to his lips but not drinking. “Got it in his head thatdivestinghis money is going to make him a good person. This family has worked hard for centuries to amass that wealth — it’s not like it was handed to us. And if you ask me, it’s just a cop-out after none of hisown ventures panned out for him. Brandon never learned how to work for anything.”

“Oh,” Abigail says, nodding, though it’s clear she’s not really following. “Is Brandon here tonight?”

“No,” my father laughs, meeting my eyes. “We’re not entertaining him during this little phase.”

I bite my tongue, thinking of my father’s directive not to answer Brandon’s calls or texts until he comes to his senses.

Abigail glances at me, then opens her mouth to ask something else, but is cut off by the arrival of a pack of older men, all wearing suits and carrying their own drinks.

They stop with a rush of cologne, a different mix of scents from the luxury boutique, gifts from their wives they’ve been using faithfully for fifty years.

I’d be thankful for the interruption if it was anyone else. But this group means talking about ventures, mergers, and investments, and I just don’t have the energy for it tonight. I’m doing more than well enough for myself without the advice from men forty years my senior, those who know nothing about where the market is going — only where it’s been.

And, I notice, among them is Mr. Eddings — a British man my father’s age. My first introduction to the idea that someone could maintain a relationship with someone while hating their guts.

“Eddings,” my father says, grinning and shaking hands with the man. There’s already a sour taste in my mouth — the Eddings travel in packs. The men instantly devolve into talk of business, and I’m searching for an excuse to leave that won’t disappointmy father, when he nods his head at me, pulling me from my thoughts.

“See, Elliot,” he says, gesturing between one of the men and me. “I’ve been telling you, you should get into microchips. The demand is there.”

“Sure.” I raise an eyebrow and take a sip of my whiskey, glancing over at Abigail, who looks even more bored than I am. Turning my attention back to my dad, I say, “But the barrier to entry is high. High enough that the industry could take a turn by the time you pour all your money into factories, right?”

“See,that’swhy you contract.”

I’d recognize that voice anywhere, and it immediately sets me on edge. Where one goes, the other follows. I should have known there was no way I’d go to Wimbledon without running into Clark Eddings.

When I turn, I see him standing just at the edge of our table, a martini in his hand. Clark looks, annoyingly, exactly the same as he did while we were attending school together.

Black hair with far too much styling gel curls over his forehead. When he smiles a dimple pops in his cheek, and his voice is the same — annoying, posh, with rounded vowels.

Beside me, Abigail shifts, taking in this new addition. I wish, desperately, that I’d included her in my plan, asked her to fake being sick. Take a faux emergency call. Anything to get me off of this rooftop.

“Oh, Clark,” says my father, raising his eyebrows but not sounding surprised. “I didn’t know you were in the microchip business.”

“I’m not,” Clark says, taking a quick sip of his martini, his gaze darting past me and to Abigail. I’m not planning to keep seeing her after this, but I feel something rise up inside me, and I shift between them, scowling. Clark grins at me, then finishes, “But anyone knows that’s the right move.”

To the outside world, I remain collected, but the frustration curls inside me like a tendril of black smoke. Clark has been the smudge on my windshield since we met in business school — the consistent and persistent pain in my ass. If I entered the business proposal contest, so did Clark. When my friend and I signed up for doubles, of course, Clark did, too. Every extracurricular, every sport, every internship or externship. Clark was right there, winning smile. And, even more infuriatingly, we traded wins, and the losses to him hurt more than to anyone else.

Then, as the final blow, he made sure to go after my girlfriend right before graduation. I didn’t care much — I make sure never to get too attached to the people I date — but it was still grating that he posted pictures with her weeks later, the two of them smiling on a beach.

That didn’t matter half as much as Clark getting onBusiness National’s Forty Under Forty list, while I was notably left off. When I mentioned it to my father, he just shook his head, saying something like, “Look at hisnet worth, that’s what matters.”

“But tech isn’t the right game,” Clark says now, lifting his eyebrows, like he has so much wisdom to impart upon us. I hate how the other people at the table are waiting for him to finish, hanging on his every word. “We all know what the real investment opportunity is right now.”

When there’s a beat of silence at the table, Clark follows through on the act, raising his eyebrows and making a stupidly calculated face. “Right?”

“Clearly not,” I deadpan, hoping the meaning is clear:This is boring, can we move on?