Page 101 of The Grumpy Billionaire
And then it hit me—he wanted to make me suffer. On national TV.
He knew the network was my ultimate career goal, and he’d arranged it so I would get a taste of it, but after the way I’d quit my job and destroyed the story footage, I’d never get hired there or anywhere else worth a damn.
Maybe he wanted to expose me on live television, tell people I was some kind of predatory paparazzi journalist, or… he’d let me get out there on the set and then refuse to answer my questions and laugh in my face.
The possibilities for humiliation and career suicide were endless. Or maybe… no, I was too afraid to even let myself hope.
But I told Tanya I’d do it. After checking with someone higher up, she instructed me to be at the network’s studios Thursday night. The show would follow their top cop drama and ensure certain ratings victory for the second week of sweeps. I gave her Sheldon’s number then hung up and stared at my phone, contemplating calling Reid.
No. If he wanted to talk to me before the interview, he knew where to find me. Otherwise, we’d have our reckoning on live network television.
I had to give it to him—when he decided to start talking to the press, he didn’t mess around.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Moment of Truth
Mara
“Miss Neely? You’re on in ten. Follow me to the studio, please.”
I stood and trailed after a short guy with a headset and a tablet he never stopped tapping from the green room down a short hallway to a door marked STUDIO: QUIET PLEASE.
When I’d arrived a couple hours earlier, I’d met the show’s senior producer and the host, both of whom assured me of how unusual all of this was. I could tell from the look on the host’s face that if Reid hadn’t indeed been the “get” of the decade, there was no way she would’ve allowed such trespassing on her territory.
But, as we all knew, ratings ruled. And they were expecting an unprecedented audience to tune in tonight.
While the host went off somewhere to give her scripts a final read-through or meditate or something, the producer explained to me what would happen during my interview segment and went over the rundown with me.
“Is Reid here yet?” I asked, hoping for a minute alone with him before the show.
“Mr. Mancini is in a different green room. He’s asked not to be disturbed until just before airtime. He’s an interesting guy. Good luck out there, kid,” the producer said and disappeared to go do whatever network producers do before airtime.
I was so far out of my league, I thought I might need an oxygen mask.
Short Tablet Guy led me to a chair on the set and handed me a lav mic to put on then plugged in my IFB cord, so I’d be able to hear the show’s director cue me. The lights were on, and the camera operators were all in place, but Reid wasn’t in the studio yet.
A terrible thought occurred to me—what if he’d lured me here under the pretense of doing the interview and then just didn’t show?
The thought of it was worse than one of those dreams where you show up at school for the final exam and realize you forgot to study all semester. And you’re naked.
The host would introduce our segment, the camera lights would come on, and it would just be me sitting there alone on the set with my mouth hanging open. Cue the crickets.
But at three minutes till airtime, the studio door opened, and Reid came striding across the floor toward the set. I hadn’t been nervous on live TV since my first few weeks on-air. But now, adrenaline rocketed through my veins.
Reid wore a dark blue suit with a light pink shirt and a navy striped tie. He looked like every cent of a billion bucks.
Tablet Guy led him to his chair, helped him get his microphone on, showed him a glass of water that had been placed on a nearby table, and wished us both luck.
And then we were alone. Well, alone with a couple of camera ops, a floor director, and soon, an audience of millions. I finally dared to look at Reid’s face. He gave me a little half-smile that caused the adrenaline jets to fire a new round.
“Two minutes,” the floor director announced.
“What are we doing here?” I bit out under my breath, trying to keep our conversation private.
“I didn’t get my fifteen minutes of fame. You know what a publicity hound I am,” Reid said, following his droll statement with a dazzling grin.
“I don’t understand.” I was desperate for a hint at what he had up his sleeve. What he’d said so far wasn’t helping much.
