Page 7 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
Everyone glances at me.
I nod, slowly. Lean back in my chair.
Someone clicks a pen. Another clears their throat. I hear everything. It’s like my brain is on high alert for anything except what they want me to focus on.
I flip my phone face-up on my lap. Just a glance.
The first notification is from Vanguard.
Calvin Hale Seen With Mystery Woman (Again?) Outside Sunset Tower. Our Sources Say It’s Serious.
Here we go again.
I open the article and skim. The photo is blurry, grainy, and, as usual, only captures the back of my head. You’d think after a decade of camera dodging, someone would get tired of the game.
The woman in the picture? Stephanie. My publicist. She was briefing me on crisis points in the valet line.
The article goes on to speculate that she’s a “longtime love interest” and “close to meeting the board.” That part actually makes me laugh.
I haven’t had a romantic relationship in over six years.
But Vanguard loves a good lie. Always has. Every week, it’s the same story: a different woman I supposedly whisked away for a secret getaway or introduced to some non-existent family. They all work for me. All of them.
I toss the phone onto the table, screen down. Exhale through my nose.
“Mr. Hale?” Will’s voice pulls me back.
I lift my eyes. Everyone’s staring.
He’s hovering at the head of the table with a tight smile. “Thoughts on the loyalty tier redesign?”
I blink. “It’s fine.”
Silence.
“It’s clean,” I add. “But predictable. What’s the emotional hook?”
Someone scribbles that down like it’s gospel.
I sit up and fold my hands on the table. “People don’t care about discounts anymore. They want identity. Design around that, and maybe we won’t be competing with free sleep apps.”
Will nod too fast. “Absolutely. We’ll go back in and sharpen the?—”
“Next,” I say.
They move on. Slide after slide. Voice after voice. I’m back in my chair, quiet again. Staring at charts that don’t matter and listening to strategies that all feel like noise.
I used to love this. The chase, the pitch, the execution. Now I just feel… heavy.
The moment the meeting ends, I don’t wait. I stand, offer a polite smile to nobody in particular, and walk out. My assistant, Marley, starts to follow, but one look from me and she stands still, lowering her gaze.
I step into my office, and the silence hits like a wall.
The view is spectacular—Los Angeles sprawled beneath me like it’s mine. Top floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A corneroffice bigger than most people’s apartments. Everything sleek. Minimalist. Expensive.
This is the dream.
I’m young, rich, powerful. I have the kind of face that makes magazine editors call it “aristocratic” and finance blogs call it “marketable.” I’m the chairman of the board, founder of the company, head of the table.
