Her Scorching Billionaire (Tycoons of Pleasure Valley #4)

1. Tatum

TATUM

Inoticed the tattoos first. Then the jaw. Then the number he got wrong.

Twenty-two hours without sleep, and I was running on black coffee and a protein bar I’d eaten over my keyboard at one a.m. The Forge IPO pitch books were printed, bound, and stacked at every seat around the Pleasure Valley Capital conference table.

I’d checked the comps three times. I’d checked them a fourth time when the update hit my terminal at six in the morning, right as I was brushing my teeth in the office bathroom.

I was the most junior person in the room. First-year analyst. I carried the books in. Nobody asked me to sit, but there was a chair at the far end of the table, so I took it.

Lawrence Overton sat at the head, pen aligned with his legal pad, reading glasses halfway down his nose. Two senior associates sat to his right. The Forge team arrived at nine sharp.

Sayer Drake walked in first.

My brain catalogued him before I could stop it.

Tall. Broad. The kind of build that made his suit jacket look like it was working too hard.

He had dark hair, worn short and tight. Beard trimmed close but full enough to mean something.

Tattoos visible at his collar and past both cuffs.

Arms that said he didn’t sit behind a desk all day, even though I knew he did.

He scanned the room the way someone sizes up a space they intend to own. He pulled out the chair across from Lawrence, unbuttoned his jacket, and sat without waiting to be told where.

I opened my copy of the pitch book to the comps page, keeping my eyes on the numbers.

The meeting started with Lawrence’s opening remarks, which I’d heard a version of on every deal since I started nine months ago. Then the Forge team walked through their growth metrics, their market position, their roadmap. Surface-level stuff.

I followed along, flipping pages, making notes in the margins. Sayer didn’t present. He sat with his arms crossed and let his CFO talk.

But when the conversation turned to pricing, he leaned forward. “Your comparable set is clean.” He nodded toward the pitch book. “But you’re underweighting Novariq’s last round. Their post-money multiple sets the floor for where Forge should price.”

His voice was low and unhurried. One that was used to finishing sentences without interruption.

He cited the number.

It was wrong.

Not wrong because he was careless. Wrong because Novariq had released restated financials overnight. I’d caught the filing at six AM while the rest of the team was probably asleep. The updated number pushed the multiple up by eleven percent. Not a rounding error. A noticeable difference.

The room was quiet. Lawrence’s senior associates nodded. Lawrence himself made a note on his legal pad. Nobody corrected him.

I looked at the number in front of me. Looked at Sayer Drake’s crossed arms and the absolute certainty on his face. Looked at Lawrence’s pen moving across his pad, writing down the wrong figure.

“That multiple’s been restated.”

My voice cut through the room before I’d fully decided to speak. Every head at the table turned.

Sayer Drake’s eyes found mine. Dark. Steady. Not angry. Not yet.

“Novariq filed an amendment Friday,” I said. “Post-money valuation came up. The adjusted multiple is fifteen point eight, not fourteen point two.”

Silence.

Lawrence’s pen stopped.

Sayer didn’t move. Didn’t uncross his arms. He looked at me the way you look at a locked door when you expected it to open.

“Walk me through it.”

Not a question. A command. The two senior associates on my side of the table shifted in their chairs. I could feel Lawrence’s stillness at the head of the table without looking.

“The amendment hit the SEC filing system Friday at 4:17 p.m.,” I said. “Restated revenue recognition on two licensing deals that were originally booked as recurring. Reclassified as one-time. Drops the trailing twelve-month figure, which pushes the multiple up.”

I kept my voice even. I didn’t look at Lawrence. I didn’t look away from Sayer.

He held my gaze for three seconds. Four. Long enough for the room to feel it. Long enough for the senior associate next to me to clear his throat.

Then he nodded. Once. Short. The kind of nod that didn’t concede but didn’t argue, either.

“Good catch,” he said. And turned back to the CFO as if the room hadn’t just stopped breathing.

The rest of the meeting went another forty minutes. I didn’t speak again. I didn’t need to. My heart was hammering against my ribs so hard, I squeezed my hands together in my lap to steady myself.

When it was over, the Forge team stood and buttoned jackets, shaking hands around the table. Sayer was the last one to reach Lawrence, and he held the handshake a beat too long, saying something I couldn’t hear from my end of the table.

Lawrence nodded.

The Forge team left. The conference room emptied. I stacked my notes and reached for the extra pitch books.

“Marsh.”

Lawrence’s voice. I turned.

He stood at the head of the table, glasses off, pen still in his hand. His face was unreadable.

“Leave the books. My office. Five minutes.”

He walked out.

I stood in the empty conference room with my heart in my throat and the certain knowledge that I’d just either made or ended my career. Both options felt equally real. Neither felt like something I could control.

All I kept seeing was that nod. And those arms. And the way his eyes had locked onto mine like I was the first person who’d ever told him no.

I picked up my coffee cup. It was cold. I drank it anyway.