Valentine’s Billionaire Auction

Chapter 8

8

ROMAN

T he flash of cameras started the second my car pulled up to the curb outside my downtown LA office tower. I didn’t even have time to straighten my tie before a wall of reporters surged toward me, their microphones and smartphones thrust forward like weapons.

I stepped out of the car, my polished leather shoe hitting the pavement with practiced precision. A sunny January day in LA should’ve been glorious, but not when you’re fending off vultures.

“Mr. Kelly! Any comments on the recent acquisition rumors?”

“Are you dating a secret Kardashian?”

“Will you be selling your hotel?

“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.”

The room stayed silent for a beat too long, the tension palpable.

Finally, one of the senior analysts, a graying man named Frank, cleared his throat. “The numbers are… unusual. But the team assures us everything is above board.”

“Uh huh.” I didn’t look up, still skimming the line items. “Tell the team I want a full breakdown by end of day. And if this is smoke and mirrors, I’ll make sure whoever is blowing the smoke regrets it.”

The meeting continued, discussions shifting to projections for the next quarter, potential new ventures, and a handful of minor mergers. But the air changed halfway through when one of the junior execs slid his phone across the table to the VP.

The VP frowned at the screen, then pushed it toward me.

“What now?” I snapped, taking the phone.

The screen showed a video clip of my exchange with the reporter outside. My voice—sharp and dripping with disdain—played on a loop. I looked like a real prick. Like a guy who hated the little people, even though it was mostly the asshole on my shoe I didn’t like.

The VP leaned forward. “That’s already on three major news outlets. We need to talk about your… approachability.”

I laughed bitterly. “Approachability? I’m running multimillion-dollar businesses, not a daycare. I don’t need to be approachable. If anything, I need to be less approachable. He stomped on my foot but they don’t show that in their damn video.”

“You’re running the businesses now,” Frank said carefully. “But, Roman, your reputation is starting to hurt your future ventures. Your legacy businesses will thrive—they’re established, reliable. But nobody wants to take risks on new projects with?—”

“With what?” I challenged, my eyes narrowing.

“An asshole,” Frank said bluntly, his hands clasped on the table.

The room went still.

No one talked to me like that.

Except Frank.

I leaned back in my chair, staring him down. “Careful, Frank. You’re on thin ice.”

“I’m on reality,” he replied evenly. “You’re brilliant, Roman, but you’re not relatable. People don’t trust you. And if you don’t fix that? This might be the peak of your career. From here, it’ll be a slow regression. You are going to be harassed even further. They will get you to do more than just yell at them. You’re going to snap in a way that can’t be undone, and when that happens, you’ll lose everything you’ve built. You will be sued into oblivion and canceled for good.”

I was silent for a long moment, feeling every eye in the room on me. My usual response would be to fire back, defend myself, assert dominance. The words hit harder than I expected. I hated them—but I couldn’t dismiss them outright.

My mind flashed back to my mother’s gentle scoldings about my stubbornness. How she’d deal with me not by throwing my attitude back in my face, but by pointing out the truth with a soft but firm honesty.

“I’m a Kelly,” I said, my voice like steel. “Kellys don’t peak. We persevere.”

“Then prove it,” Frank said, leaning back.

I tapped the table, considering. “Fine. I want proposals—real, actionable solutions. No fluff. No motivational posters. By the end of the week.”

The room nodded in agreement. I stood, buttoning my suit jacket. “Meeting adjourned.”

I had no desire to sit in the office another minute. I didn’t really need to be there. Any work I needed to do could be handled from my phone or laptop at home. I stopped by my office and collected a few things before strolling right back to the elevator.

I heard the whispers and knew the video was making its rounds. It wasn’t the first time I had been the subject of a viral video, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last. People loved to hate me. There wasn’t a damn thing I could do about that. They were going to call me an asshole no matter what I did.

When the elevator opened, the usual hustle and bustle in the lobby quieted when I stepped out. Some people were looking at their phones. I heard my own voice telling the reporter not to shove his phone in my face. Fame could be the most isolating thing in the world. I ignored the looks and strolled toward the door. Outside, the mob of press seemed to have doubled in size. I stepped out and was greeted once again by the persistent shouting of questions.

“Mr. Kelly, do you have anything to say about the viral video from this morning?”

“Will you be issuing a formal apology?”

“Do you have an official statement?”

“How much are those shoes?”

I flashed my most dashing smile. “My official statement is you all smell like desperation.”

The cameras clicked furiously as I climbed into my car, slamming the door behind me. I started the engine and revved it up. They were doing their best to lock me in, but they were just scared enough about what I might do and backed up.

I pulled away and hit the gas once I made it onto the street. I leaned back in my seat, loosening my tie. The board’s words echoed in my mind: Nobody wants to take risks with an asshole.

Fine. I would clean up my act. Or at least, I’d find a way to make people think I had.

For now, though, I’d stick to what I knew. Which, apparently, was being the villain.