Page 22 of Valentine’s Billionaire Auction

“How was your date last night?”

“Was that woman homeless?”

I ignored the questions, finding them utterly ridiculous. It was nothing new. My every move was under a microscope. They always asked me inane stuff about my personal life, from who I was dating to what I was wearing. The attention was obnoxious.

I pushed through the crowd, making sure I didn’t use my actual hands. I didn’t need a fucking lawsuit.

Been there, done that.

“Roman, what do you have to say about the allegations of workplace misconduct in your Paris office?”

“Are the profit margins on Kelly Industries legitimate or just clever accounting?”

The last question made me pause for a fraction of a second. That question was the main reason I was here today. The numbers coming out of that division were absurdly good—so good they’d started raising eyebrows. But I wasn’t going to address their bullshit. Not until I got to the bottom of it myself.

“Roman! Roman!” one overeager reporter shouted, darting in front of me and stepping squarely on my shoe.

I stopped dead, glaring down at him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Sorry—”

“No, you’re not sorry. If you were sorry, you wouldn’t be so desperate to shove a mic in my face that you’d trample over my Ferragamos. Move.”

The man stammered an apology, backing away, but not before someone’s phone captured the exchange.

I strode into the lobby of the tower, my blood simmering. Behind me, the crowd buzzed louder, no doubt already composing their dramatic headlines. Thankfully, security kept the vultures outside.

I noticed the people in the lobby looking my way. Some knew me, some didn’t. Thankfully, they had a little more decorum and didn’t try to ask me anything. They all minded their own damn business.

Why couldn’t everyone do that?

I strode across the shiny floor, nodding once at the security guard. I hit the button for the elevator and made the mistake of looking toward the windows where the vultures were still circling. As soon as I stepped into the elevator, I looked down at my shoe.

A scuff. A dark mark on the pristine leather that would need more than a simple buffing to remove. My jaw tightened as I stared at it. The scratch wasn’t just a scratch. It was a representation of the morning’s aggravations. The reporters needed to recognize personal space. I had smelled more bad breath and B.O. from pushy reporters than I would smell in a crowded, seedy bar.

It was annoying. Nothing about my life was that interesting.

As the elevator doors slid shut, cutting off the muffled sounds of the reporters outside, I exhaled slowly, trying to release some of the tension that had built up. The ride up was silent, except for the soft hum of the elevator and the faint tapping of my foot. By the time I reached my floor, I had managed to compose myself somewhat.

The doors opened to reveal the sleek interior of Kelly Industries’ headquarters. The moment I stepped out of the elevator, I felt the vibe change. The atmosphere was calm and professional, not chaotic like the world outside those glass doors. As I passed by the rows of cubicles, my employees nodded respectfully or offered a brief smile—simple acknowledgments of my presence without the invasive questions or frantic scrambling.

I made my way directly to my office at the end of the hall, a spacious room with a view of the city skyline that never failed to remind me why I had climbed to this height in the business world. The walls were adorned with awards and recognition plaques, each one marking a milestone on my climb to the top.

If my mom could see me now.

She’d probably say I was working too hard, or that the office could use a woman’s touch—something about the lack of plants making it feel too sterile. She was always worried about me. As a pre-teen, I thought it was annoying. But damn, I would give all my billions for another week with her.

I dropped into the high-backed leather chair behind my desk. If I had an assistant, she, or he, would come running in to give me coffee and announce my schedule.

But I didn’t have an assistant because they kept quitting. I really didn’t understand what the problem was. I didn’t think I was that big of an asshole. I liked things done a certain way and I liked them done right. If you got a job, why wouldn’t you do what was asked?

My phone beeped, distracting me from my thoughts. I pulled it out to check the screen. It was a reminder for the meeting that started in ten minutes. Without an assistant, it was up to me to be on time. I set another reminder and quickly turned on my computer to check email and the latest reports.

It wasn’t long before the reminder alarm started chiming again. It wasn’t the worst thing to have to get myself to meetings on time. It was either my chiming phone or someone bugging me with reminders. The phone was looking better and better.

I stood and took another look out the window from the twenty-fifth floor. I adjusted my tie and strolled out of my office. I made my way to the conference room where everyone was already seated. I was still pissed and irritable. The room was full—executives and analysts seated around the sleek, glass-topped table, all of them flipping through quarterly financial reports. The conversation paused as I entered, but I didn’t acknowledge it, grabbing the file in front of my chair and flipping through it before I sat down.

“If it sounds too good to be true,” I muttered, scanning the report, “it probably is.”