The Billionaire’s Bun In Her Oven - Ellie Rowe Page 0,35

her to-go cup of coffee. “Better than it’s going for the chef out there.”

“What do you mean?” My stomach sinks a little. “Tug, what’re you working on?”

“That meal challenge you just shot.”

“Did you all see the way Nadia was gaslighting Cynthia?” I ask, my voice tight. “I’m sure she included every ingredient.”

“Relax, she did,” Rachna says, still not looking at me.

“We got footage of everything she threw in,” Kenny says. “We cut out Nadia’s mistake.”

“I hardly think it was a mistake, she was trying to –”

“Here,” Tug cuts in, “I’ve got it cued up.”

“Run it,” Kenny instructs.

I watch the monitors. It’s true they’ve cut out the bit where Nadia accuses her of leaving out the spices. As a result, what they’ve cut together is even worse. Without Nadia’s comment, there’s no reason for Cynthia to appear as flustered as she is. She just looks like an idiot.

“What the fuck is this?” I ask.

Rachna finally looks over at me. “It’s TV, Stephen.”

“You’ve made her look like she had no confidence in the dish.”

“She didn’t.”

“Because Nadia was fucking with her, which you’ve taken out!”

“Nadia’s one of the co-hosts. It doesn’t bother you when we edit around your mistakes.”

I turn to Tug. “Put Nadia’s comments back in.”

Tug swivels his chair to his computers, but then, Rachna says, “Leave it as it is, Tug, it’s great.”

“Kenny?” I ask, hoping he can lend a hand.

He glances from me to Rachna and back to me. He shrugs. “The less confidence the viewers have in her, the more redemption she’ll get when you save the place at the end of the show.”

“Exactly,” Rachna says. She steps up to me. Even though I tower over her, she manages to exert a level of authority that makes me feel small.

“Please,” I say meekly.

“Stephen, you’ve been a bit behind this whole episode…” she starts.

“I know, I’m sor —”

“Nadia’s bringing it.”

“She’s bringing something.”

“There’s no reason Into the Fire can’t switch up hosts for next season. You sold the concept to the network. We own it. You’re a good draw, but maybe you’ve lost your touch? Nadia certainly hasn’t.”

One nice thing about working in TV? The threats are almost never thinly-veiled. They’re flaunted out in the open, naked as a jaybird for all to see. So, I back down, only offering, “I just don’t want to do a hatchet job on this girl.”

“Then tell her to get out of the way.”

I turn to go – and discover Cynthia standing in the office doorway. Her face is pale, her eyes unfocused. My immediate assumption is that she saw the footage we just played.

Then I realize it’s something else. I remember the missed calls from her mother…

It takes Cynthia a moment to find her voice. When she does, I can tell she’s working hard to modulate it. Nonetheless, there’s fear behind her words.

“Sorry,” she says, “I need some time off.”

Twenty-Seven

Cynthia

I stuff my things angrily into a suitcase. Who the fuck cares what I bring anyway? It won’t be good enough, won’t be long enough, won’t be expensive enough or tasteful enough. Each item of clothing gets tossed in with seething hatred.

I can’t believe she did this to me. I can’t believe she’s calling me home, my home, and for what?! She was so vague on the phone…

“She better not be fucking sick,” I mutter as I grab a few panties from the drawer. “If she’s sick, I’ll fucking kill her.” All she said was that it's important. Extremely important, and that it might have something to do with my inheritance.

This isn’t the first time she’s threatened to withhold it entirely, and, to be honest, I’ve worked pretty hard to make a living without relying on it.

“But what if it’s my Dad?” I whimper, clutching a dress to my heart. “No,” I say sternly, “she’s not heartless, she’d be honest if it has something to do with him. If this is about the damn dog, I swear to God…”

With everything packed (or thrown) in my bag, I grab my keys to head out the door. I can do this. Anything’s better than being on the show, right? I wish that were the case. In truth, the only thing worse than being on the show is dealing with my mother.

I’m not sure which is more dramatic at this point. She’d tell you she could have made it into Juilliard if my father hadn’t whisked her off her feet. She pretends she never dreamed, but that’s a goddamn lie.

I’ll bet this is about me. She’s worried about