Page 88 of No More Billionaires

“And I wouldn’t take your money if youbeggedme on bended knee.”

Larson stared at the envelope, not moving to take it, not responding to what I’d said.

Maybe he would open it after I left. Maybe he’d toss it in the trash can without even looking inside. But I’d done all I could do.

I walked to his office door and left without looking back.

* * *

In my fantasy version of today, Larson would open the envelope, realize instantly what it meant, and then, eyes glistening with tears, tell me all was forgiven and that he loved me.

Then he’d pull out a pen, sign the pre-nup immediately, and we’d walk out of his office together and announce to the newsroom we were getting married.

Apparently, I was not living in a Hugh Grant movie.

I trudged back to my desk and half-heartedly went about the daily tasks I had to perform before the show aired, but overall I was pretty useless.

If it wouldn’t have left Deb in a terrible lurch, I would’ve just gone home. At one point she asked me what was wrong, but I couldn’t bring myself to talk about it. It was hard enough to explain it to my own heart, much less anyone else.

About ten minutes before show time, Deb got off the phone and turned her desk chair to me. Her brown eyes shone with a knowing gleam.

“Listen, kiddo—can you stick around and booth the show with me tonight?”

“Oh—if you need me—of course.” I tried to fake a morsel of enthusiasm.

“Good. I want you to start training to produce a show on your own. Word is—and you can’t tell anyone this, hear me?”

I nodded.

“Remember that associate producer job I mentioned? It’s for the new lifestyle and fashion show. And theyaregoing to go ahead and can the other girl they hired—she’s not working out. I recommended you.”

Now the enthusiasm was real. In fact, if it hadn’t been the saddest day of my life, I might have popped out of my chair and danced.

Instead, I reached over and squeezed her hand. “Are you serious? I wouldloveto do that show. I’ve watched every episode, and I have so many ideas for it already. Do you think I really have a chance?”

“Before I saw you in your glamour girl getup here, I had my doubts. But with your producing skills and your newflair,”

Deb made a silly face and dramatically brushed her hair back from her face, making me laugh.

“I think they’ll see you’re as perfect for it as I already know you are. No time to celebrate now, though—we’ve got a show to produce.”

For the first time today, my heart lightened a fraction. I walked briskly to the booth with Deb, forgetting my misery for a whole five minutes. It was a welcome relief.

Unfortunately, it was also short-lived.

I took a seat beside Deb in the dark director’s booth, and there was Larson, everywhere I looked. His image was repeated on a wall of screens in front of me.

He was getting into place on the set, clipping the lavalier mic onto his jacket, neatening his stack of scripts on the desktop.

The anchors all read from teleprompters in the studio, but the occasional failure of technology was inevitable, even at the network, and on-air types always kept their paper scripts handy, just in case.

When he looked up for the camera check, I noticed the makeup artist had done a nice job of covering his under-eye circles.

As far as viewers would know (as far as I knew) he was just fine. He looked happy, healthy, and decidedlyun-heartbroken.

Meanwhile, I was dying by slow disintegration and being forced to watch his beautiful face on the screen was a particularly cruel form of torture.

By now, he’d had ample time to open and read the agreement, and I hadn’t heard a word from him. He hadn’t left his office all day, in fact, which was unusual. Instead, he’d communicated with Deb about the show through instant messages and phone calls.

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