Page 261 of Most Eligible Billionaire CEO

“I inherited the responsibilities of the company when Daddy died. I have a degree in kinesiology from Los Angeles City College and a business administration certificate. I don’t have a bachelor’s degree or an MBA. Until my father’s passing, I was a personal trainer at a chain of boutique gyms. I only worked part-time in the family business because there wasn’t enough money to cover yet another paycheck. In other words, I’m not equipped for the job.”

“So, you’re overwhelmed and things are tight?” I conclude.

She nods sadly. “I could barely manage to pay my last three employees. Needless to say, there’s no money left for me once I’m done with payroll,” she explains.

“No savings?”

“Daddy sunk every last dime into manufacturing the bicycles and prototypes of other smart exercise gym equipment he wanted to put out on the market. He was so certain of his vision, he applied to be a contestant on that TV reality show where a bunch of billionaires decide to partner up with you or not.”

“Wow. He was serious.”

“He was unwavering in his belief. He was hoping to win the jackpot by becoming that lucky guy one of the billionaires partnered up with, or at least, he was praying the massive exposure from his fifteen minutes of fame would translate into free publicity and a ton of preorders.”

“I assume it never happened?”

Her gaze falls to the table. “A car running a red light slammed right into him while he was on his bicycle during his evening ride. He died three days before an assistant producer from the show called the office. I couldn’t even take his place––”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t know the ins and outs of the business. I blew a chance of a lifetime because of my inexperience––” she chokes.

I get up, circle the table, sit next to her, and wrap her in my arms. I brush her hair off her face before wiping her tears away with my thumb.

“You don’t have to continue if this is too hard,” I tell her.

“I’ll be okay,” she tells me.

“Only if you’re sure.”

“I am,” she assures me. “Other than my best friend Sydney, no one knows what I’ve been dealing with for the past eight months. It’s a heavy burden to carry. We may still be practically strangers, but sharing this with you has somehow lightened my load.”

“Good. Tell me more.”

She explains why she was in Beverly Hills and how her hopes were crushed when Sydney’s contact was a no-show due to unforeseeable circumstances. She talks about her deceased parents. Then, she tells me all about her evil, scheming social climber stepmother. She explains how her dad and Hillary met—a Fourth of July barbecue at a colleague’s house. She also gives me the run down on her useless fame-hungry stepsisters and Hillary’s dick duke boyfriend. If this wasn’t such a heavy conversation, I might’ve laughed my head off at Hillary’s last name. Twatt? How appropriate.

“Is Petula and Olive’s father out of the picture?” I ask.

“They have different fathers,” she corrects. “And yes, they’re out of the picture.”

“Deadbeat dads?”

She lets out a wry laugh. “Until she suckered my father into marrying her, Hillary was a career mistress. She’s not even ashamed to admit it.”

“Few women would be shouting that out on megaphones.”

“Other than her daughters and being a stage mom, Hillary doesn’t have many accomplishments. I guess that’s why she makes being a homewrecker part of her curriculum vitae,” she sneers.

“Good one,” I laugh.

“Don’t get me wrong, the men are also to blame for their philandering, but Hillary made it her mission to target men wearing a ring on their left hand. It was like an aphrodisiac to her. From what I’ve overheard here and there, her lovers were generous until they got tired of her. At which point, they’d conveniently find a way to ghost her. That’s what happened with Petula’s dad.”

“Regardless if the guy ghosted her or not, Hillary could’ve gone after him for child support.”

“Hillary has a thing for foreign men––hence, the French duke–– which begs the question why on earth she ended up with my father. Daddy was as red, white and blue as can be. American through and through,” she shakes her head. “In any case, one night, while Daddy and Hillary were out, Petula and Olive were sitting in the garden, drinking and complaining about their sad, sad life—”

“What were those ungrateful bitches complaining about?” I growl.

“They were lamenting about how their mother ended up with a pauper instead of latching on to a rich man who could help them achieve their Hollywood dreams. From their silly giggles, it was obvious they were tipsy, if not drunk. I was a personal trainer at the time and one of my clients canceled his appointment—the last of the day for me. After the three Witches of Eastwick entered our lives, I made it a point to tiptoe around the house. The Twatt sisters didn’t know I was home early. Eavesdropping shamelessly on their conversation, I found out Petula’s father is Irish. When Hillary started putting pressure on him to man up and take care of her and their daughter, despite the fact he was already married, he magically disappeared to Ireland. Hillary tried to find him, but it was in vain. The name Patrick Murphy is very common over there, making it impossible for her to track down her baby daddy.”

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