had parked behind ours and he was climbing out. The crowned head of news appeared just as tall and intimidating as he was on TV, looking ruggedly handsome in a white fox kind of way—if you were into evil, that is.
He was immediately flanked by two bodyguards.
Once out of the car, I headed in his direction, managing to catch up with him at the stone steps leading up to the 118 News Club.
“Mr. Galante!”
He looked my way, his glare taking me in. “Do I know you?”
“Kind of.” I stepped forward, wary of his guards who were poised to shove me back. “May we speak in private?”
“Make an appointment,” he snapped.
“Your secretary failed to pass on my message?”
It was as though a veil lifted and he recalled where he’d seen me before. “You’re Brenan Bardot’s daughter?”
“Yes, sir.”
He looked me up and down, making my skin crawl with the arrogant way he surveyed me. “Is this about your father’s scandal?”
“I’m asking you not to discuss those lies on your network,” I said.
He looked intrigued. “Did your father send you?”
“No, and I would be grateful if you would show respect by not mentioning it. Either in public or on your news station.”
“Have any updates you want to share?” He looked triumphant. “Like any contradictory information to what we might have?”
What did they have on my father?
“I think you’ll find your information false, Mr. Galante. We’ll file a libel lawsuit.”
“We’ll countersue.” He went to step up and then paused to look back. “You’re Damien Godman’s fiancée?”
“I am, yes.”
He gave a nod, his tongue running along his lower lip. “Quid pro quo.”
“Are you asking me to betray my boyfriend by giving you something on him?”
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I am.”
I folded my arms, my heart aching.
“Well?” he pushed. “I’m waiting. What have you got?”
“Can I think about it?”
“Sure.”
“I’ve thought about it. When hell freezes over.” I’d just spoken those words to the most powerful man in television.
Galante smirked. “I hear you once wanted to be a journalist, Ms. Bardot?”
“I wrote a piece for the Washington Post.”
“That’s right.” He reached into his pocket and handed me his business card. “My number. Let me know when you’re ready for the exchange of information on the Godman family. You have until Saturday. The news story about your father goes live at 5:00 P.M.”
That was just days before the election.
“Never going to happen,” I said.
“Well, then, get some marshmallows to roast on the fire. It’s going to be a scorcher.”
Bastard.
He didn’t care about people. Just his stupid ratings and his ability to ruin lives with his news show spewing lies.
Holding his business card in my fingers, I peered down at his name embossed above the Real Nation One’s logo, the station designed to manipulate viewers into thinking this man cared about this country. All he cared about was his ego and wielding his influence in exchange for power.
Galante reacted to something he spotted down the street and then turned and quickly ascended the steps to the club.
Following his line of sight, I couldn’t see exactly what had drawn his attention. A few people were heading this way. Tucking the business card into my purse, I walked back to the car.
A pretty brunette strolled by me. She looked out of place in her ripped jeans and baseball cap, like she didn’t want to be seen. She was looking up in the direction of the club. I caught a glimpse of a mole on her right upper lip. Except for the dark hair, she reminded me of Marilyn Monroe. She wore a ruby pinky ring. An interesting choice; I wondered if she knew wearing it on that finger represented self-love and an aversion to commitment. Monroe’s doppelganger elegantly ascended the stone steps to the entrance.
Her lack of confidence was glaring. I’d grown up with the type of women who thought nothing of strolling into elite clubs filled with alphas with their heads held high. She didn’t fit the profile. I wondered what she was doing here.
On a hunch, I followed her up the steps.
The interior was pleasantly designed with marble flooring and classic wood molding to enhance the swanky style.
Peering through the front window, I watched her stroll across the foyer to greet Galante. He put an arm around her shoulders and they walked through a doorway.
Were they having lunch together?
It was none of my business, but it certainly looked like an affair. Or maybe she was his daughter and I was over thinking it.
Defeated, I returned to