Page 39 of Valentine’s Billionaire Auction

“I guess when you put it that way,” I said, trying to find the humor in the situation.

“So, when do you move in?” Carla asked, breaking me from my thoughts.

“Monday.”

She looked just as stunned as I felt. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah. Maybe pour me something stronger than soda.”

14

ROMAN

The weekend was supposed to be a chance to regroup before the whirlwind of Monday hit, but instead, it had spiraled into an unrelenting storm. The headlines were ruthless: “Kelly Conglomerate Under Fire for Fraudulent Practices,” “Roman Kelly’s Business Empire Faces Scrutiny,” and my personal favorite, “Kelly’s Empire: Built on Lies?”

It didn’t matter that the accusations weren’t directly tied to me. It didn’t matter that I’d already worked with my lawyers to confirm I wasn’t legally responsible. The damage to my reputation was done. By the time I disbanded the company, reimbursed every wronged party, and fired the guilty employees, the internet had turned my name into a meme synonymous with corporate greed.

No one gave two shits that it wasn’t me. They didn’t care that I had no idea it was happening. Did they not understand how many irons I had in the fire? I couldn’t possibly scrutinize every accounting report and dissect it. I had people that did that for me. They were supposed to be the ones that handled that kind of thing. I was only looped in when there were problems too big for my people to handle.

But that didn’t matter. It was a chance for the media to rake me over the coals. And now, as I sat in the expansive silence of my home office, I realized just how fragile my station in life was. They wanted to take me down because they didn’t like me. They didn’t know me, but they didn’t like me because of the ten-second clips they had seen of me. They didn’t know what precipitated my reactions.

I scrubbed a hand down my face, feeling the stubble rasp against my palm. This was not how I had envisioned this weekend going. Instead of restful solitude at my estate, I was here grappling with crisis management and preparing for an impending media siege.

I stared at the email from my PR team summarizing the fallout, feeling the familiar thrum of anger under my skin. A glance at my reflection in the office window confirmed it: my jaw was clenched so tight it looked like I was auditioning for a toothpaste commercial.

My ears actually hurt from all the clenching. I needed a distraction, something to pull me out of the media-fueled panic and back to some semblance of strategy. My gaze drifted to the corner of my desk where a photo frame stood. It was a candid shot taken at a charity ball ten years ago, one of those rare moments when I actually looked happy. Maybe it was the company, the ambiance, or the fact that no one at that ball knew enough about me to judge. But now, looking at that photograph felt like gazing through a window at a foreign land.

My phone buzzed with another notification. I didn’t need to look to know it was bad. The PR team was doing their best to control the narrative, but it was like trying to put out a wildfire with a water pistol.

The house was eerily quiet as I paced the hallways, phone in hand, ignoring the carefully curated art and the floor-to-ceiling windows that made the place feel like a palace.

The staff knew better than to get in my way when I was in a mood like this. My chef had quietly left a plate of something I hadn’t touched on the kitchen counter hours ago. Even Anthony, my driver, had texted instead of calling when he’d checked in.

I tossed the phone onto the sleek gray sofa and ran a hand through my hair. I needed Kaira now more than ever. This mess was proving exactly why the board was right. My image needed a redemption arc, and Kaira was the key. If we played this right, the narrative would shift from “heartless billionaire” to “reformed man in love.”

The thought of her brought a flicker of something I hadn’t felt all day: anticipation.

Maybe it was the challenge. Or maybe it was the fact I was lonely. The house had been feeling empty since she left. Clearly, a part of me craved companionship, someone to share all my good fortune with. She might not like me, but at least I knew she and I could have a conversation. It might get heated, and she would definitely call me an asshole among other things, but it would be human connection.

Most people just agreed with me, whether they liked me or not. It was impossible to know who was being genuine and who just wanted something from me. I often wondered what it would be like to have a true friend. Someone that wanted to hang out with me because they wanted my company and not for what I could do for them.

This could be my chance to start fresh, to show a different side of myself, one that people could actually relate to, maybe even like. It meant vulnerability, something I wasn’t very familiar or comfortable with, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

The thought of letting down my guard made me less than comfortable. I was not the warm and fuzzy type. Letting my guard down opened me up to getting exploited. But what if behind my gate and within the safety of my home, I could relax and be myself around Kaira?

I groaned, not wanting to think about that. The fake relationship was vital to changing the narrative around me and my companies. Things needed to go smoothly. No matter how much I kept thinking about the kiss we’d shared, I couldn’t do that again. This whole thing would blow up in my face if I blurred the lines between business and pleasure.

I was going to drive myself crazy if I kept thinking about her lips. I needed a distraction.

I went upstairs to my room and changed into a pair of shorts and put on my tennis shoes. I headed to the home gym to work out all my frustrations. Starting with the punching bag, I threw punches harder and faster with each thought that raced through my mind.

The bag swung back and forth, absorbing the impact of my fists and the weight of my troubles. Each hit was a release, a way to clear the fog of stress and anger that clouded my judgment.

Sweat dripped down my forehead, stinging my eyes. I ignored it, focusing instead on the rhythm of my breath and the sound of leather colliding with leather. My heart pounded in my chest.

After the punching bag had taken its fill, I moved onto weights, pushing myself with each lift. The clink of metal on metal reverberated through the large, empty room. The physical exertion helped; it always did.

As I set down the heavy dumbbells with a final clank and wiped the sweat from my brow, I realized that my body felt less tense, my mind slightly clearer. I moved to the treadmill to finish up my grueling workout. I knew people, women, admired my body. Most people assumed it was vanity that kept me in such good shape. The washboard abs and defined muscles were a side effect… not the goal. The more stress I was under, the more I worked out.