Page 55 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole

“Mr. Altman,” the sound tech says, appearing again, looking worried and gesturing behind him toward the stage. “It’s time for you to come on.”

I want to tell them to forget it, that I’m not signing a thing, but I realize this is an opportunity. Straightening up, I slap a smile on my face and stride forward.

“Sorry for the delay. Hey, is a thousand bucks enough for you to do me a favor?”

Just before I make my way back onto the stage, I pull out my phone and text my brother.

You were right.

In a minute, I’m seated back at the table and someone is fussing over my hair again. Then the cameras are turned on and facing the table.

All we supposed to do is sign the papers — a reel of footage that they can show in the back of the program while the announcers talk. But as Andrea picks up her pen, to sign for her client — my father — I turn to the side, holding a hand out, and the sound tech brings me a microphone.

“I’d like to say a few things,” I say into the microphone. The guys behind the cameras glance at one another nervously, and the other man — the one leading the show today, starts to gesture at me to stop, but nobody cuts my feed, nobody takes the microphone away.

There are some perks of having money.

I look directly into the camera, hope Sophie is watching, and begin.

CHAPTER 26

SOPHIE

I’m in my office when Molly knocks on the door, once again looking like she’s out of breath. It’s the middle of the day, and when I look up at her, my eyes are bleary from staring at the screen, from rewinding and playing the same clips again and again, looking for the tiniest competitive advantage we can use during the championship game.

“It’s Olivia,” Molly says, one hand on the doorway for support, her gray hair frizzing out around her face. She glances around my office, which has seen better days, and adds, “Again.”

I blink and look at the mess around me. I’m normally a very tidy person, but this week has been hard, to say the least. My phone is probably lost somewhere in here, under a pile of papers or tucked into the pocket of a random jacket. I’ve been ignoring it after blocking Elliot’s number, in case I got the urge to unblock him, make contact again.

When I take Molly’s pink, bedazzled phone, Olivia stares angrily from the screen, her face blurry and her voice coming out in halting syllables. The service isn’t great in here.

“Why can’t you ever answer your damn phone?” she asks, her forehead so close I can basically make out her pores, her head jerking as she moves it side to side.

“In case you forgot, we just made it through the final round of the playoffs,” I fire back, glancing between the phone and Molly, who’s watching me with wide eyes. “I’m watching film. What in the world could be so important that you had to send?—”

“Soph-ie.” It cuts off, freezes her, then plays the rest back quick, “Turn on the local news stream.”

“What?”

“Go to the website, here—” There’s a ping on my computer, and I click over to see an email from Olivia with a link. “Open that, like,rightnow.”

“What’s going on—” I start, and stop when I open the link and pull up a video of Elliot.

This is the local news channel, so the footage isn’t terribly high quality. I see the papers around him, the setup, and know what it is immediately. A signing.

Why would Olivia tell me to watchthis?

But something is off about it — Elliot is sitting behind a table with a woman next to him. She’s pretty, with dark red hair that’s pulled back into a bun, and she’s staring at him like he’s gone completely off script.

“Oh, my…” Molly whispers, drifting over and standing behind me, her vanilla perfume filling the space as the sound kicks in, and Elliot’s rich voice comes out of the computer.

Elliot is staring directly into the camera, looking too handsome for the local news. His dark hair is mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it, and his brown eyes feel too real, like he’s here and not just visible on the screen.

The captions at the bottom of the screen taking a moment to catch up with what he’s saying, scrolling through a beat later than when he gets the words out.

“…this team isnotfor sale, and will not be for the foreseeable future. Soccer, and women’s sports in general, are about more than money. There is not an offer with enough zeros to convince me to give this up.”

I blink at the screen, my brain still playing catch-up. Elliot is…notselling the team? He went on the local news to announce that?