Page 4 of Billion Dollar Revenge

A moment later, there’s a knock at my door.

“Come in,” I say with urgency.

My head lifts, and I stand straighter when I see the photographer Bobby and new photographer Callum.

“Come look at the article that will go to print. Tell me what's wrong with it,” I say.

They walk briskly to me, their eyes cast down to the papers sprawled on my wooden desk.

“It looks fine to me, Mr. Lincoln,” Bobby replies, standing back from the article, arms crossed over his chest.

Callum mumbles how he thinks it’s fine too, but he’s a new hire, so he naturally agrees with his colleague.

I grind my teeth as my eyes roll inside my head, my frustration mounting. “Bobby, ‘fine’ isn’t good enough. Do you have another image we could use?” I ask, my voice tight and strained.

Bobby runs his hand through his short brown hair, clearly deep in thought.

“We don’t have time to think. This article needs to go to print now,” I bark, losing my patience. He wants a promotion to photo editor. This position would give him more creative control, responsibility, and the opportunity to change the layout of the newspaper. But this article is proof he’s not ready yet. Why did I have to point out the blurry image? He should have been all overit. He doesn’t push himself beyond what's necessary. I’m looking for staff who push their limits. I’m here now because I did that very thing. I worked overtime for my dad for years, learned every department, and came up with new ideas to help grow the company.

It’s Callum who speaks. “We do.”

My eyebrows furrow and then release as I focus my attention on the new guy. “Can I see them?”

“Sure,” he says in a higher-pitched voice, avoiding my gaze. Clearing his throat, he reaches into his suit pocket for his phone but clumsily drops it. Shaking out his hand, he quickly bends down to scoop it up, tapping the screen as he stands.

“I can run down and email them to you,” Bobby offers, but he’s already stepping backward toward the door.

“I have them in a drive folder. I can share them with you from my phone,” Callum says, as his fingers move with urgency, still avoiding eye contact.

Callum moves to stand next to me, a bead of sweat sitting on his brow. He angles his phone so I can see his screen, which by some miracle isn’t cracked from the hard floor. When he taps to open the folder, Bobby stays silent in the background.

“Here they all are,” Callum says, keeping his eyes firmly on his phone screen as he scrolls quickly through the images for me to see.

There are a lot of images, which means I need a closer look, so I hold out my hand.

He hands his phone over, and I scroll through the mountain of photos until one captures my eye. The princess has her hands on her bodyguard’s chest, looking up at him with desire, their bodies pressed together, his hands resting firmly on her waist, with their lips almost touching.

“How quickly can you edit this?” I ask, looking up at Callum as my thumb hovers over the photo on the screen.

Callum turns to look at Bobby, his hand scratching the base of his neck, and I feel my blood start to boil.

“I don’t?” Bobby starts.

My nostrils flare as I cut him off, anticipating his crap excuse. “You know what? Just go, edit it quickly, and send it over.” Extending the phone out to Callum, he looks as though he’s seen a ghost.

Bobby drops his chin to his chest, as Callum takes his phone, and they leave my office without another word. I sit in my office chair, rubbing my brow to ward off a headache and get back to the article, knowing the new image will make this better.

I give them ten minutes before I am down on their floor. It’s already been too long. As I step out of the elevators, my body turns to stone. Bobby is at Shyla?the editor-in-chief, and my right-hand woman's desk, talking.You've got to be fucking kidding me.

I’m practically shaking with how angry I am.

“Bobby. What are you doing?” I sneer.

He stands abruptly and swivels around, face paling at the sight of me. He wasn’t expecting me.Good.

“Uh. I needed to talk to Shyla about the article,” he rushes out, taking another step away from Shyla’s desk.

“About?” I ask. I don’t pay him to talk or distract my other employees.

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