The Billionaire’s Bun In Her Oven - Ellie Rowe Page 0,61

shit without me, and you know it.” The execs murmur amongst themselves, guffawing at her audacity.

“You won’t be able to sabotage, and we won’t be able to assist you, Ms. Quint, with the cameras rolling live—”

“Come up with something fast, or you’re dropped. Ratings have been up, but they’ll plummet if you can’t win this challenge. We can’t have that. Do you understand?” Another exec cuts in, the three advancing on her.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Nadia sneers, “I’ll think of something, since it’s always up to me to save this shit show anyway.”

“And just what do you propose to do?”

I hold my breath as I wait for her to answer. What the fuck am I supposed to do? I can’t exactly pop out like a cartoon hero and yell ‘I’ve got you now!’ Who would believe me? And who would care? The top of the food chain is standing right there, conspiring with her.

With the execs on her side, she’s had an advantage from the start. The realization dawns on me and I feel sick to my stomach. They’ve been fucking with me for weeks. They’re the real reason Nadia’s been pulling ahead, getting away with all her bullshit.

Stephen was completely innocent. The whole time.

And I blamed him. My heart aches.

“I told you I’ll handle it,” she seethes, but the execs weren’t having it.

“And we told you, tell us your plan, or you’re dropped.” I see her shrug.

“Same as always. It’s the dessert next. I’ll swipe her cinnamon and truffle oil, and she’ll be toast. Is that enough for you?”

“Where will you keep them? How will you move them, we’ve got less than five minutes before we’re meant to set up!”

“I’ll shove them under my station, in a fucking bowl, and I wouldn’t be running behind on my plan if you haven’t been keeping me here for this stupid fucking meeting. Are we through?” I hear the execs murmur some more.

“You may go. Don’t mess this up for us, Nadia. Don’t mess this up for you. We’re counting on you.”

“Sure,” she quips, and I’m suddenly aware of my position. The second she steps around this corner, she’ll land on my goddamn lap.

Oh, fuck. I scramble away from my post, diving beneath one of the tables. Thank God I chose the floor-length tablecloths…

I hear Nadia stomp around the corner, but her steps pause as she reaches my table. My eyes grow wide in fear. Did she see me?! I hold my breath and wait, wondering how best to explain why I’m crouching under a table.

One of the PA’s calls our names in a panic and she abandons her trail, rushing off to the kitchen. I crawl halfway out, ready to head her off, when I hear more footsteps.

Oh, shit, the execs! I scramble back under and pull the tablecloth taut, hiding my movement. They pass without suspicion, mumbling to each other. Those fuckers. What the hell did I do to them?

Their footsteps die away as they cower in the editing room to watch the scene unfold. I sit in my cave, my anger boiling until I think I may burst. They tried to take everything from me. For an angle. For fucking ratings!

They won’t get away with this.

Forty-Six

Stephen

Where the hell is Cynthia?

We’re almost back from the commercial break. Thirty seconds ago, I started getting concerned. Ten seconds ago, I was getting worried. Now I’m just this side of a mild panic.

Kenny has already bought us all the extra time he could. He managed to relay to the network that we needed more time on this end – he lied about some technical difficulties – and they ran a few more ads. I owe Kenny for that.

I also know we can’t stall forever. Sooner or later, the last commercial will end: a car heading into the sunset with a rebellious driver at the wheel and her Labrador panting out the window, or a narrator’s list of the side effects of some E.D. or arthritis drug, and the network will pop back to our live set.

If Cynthia’s not here, this whole thing is a bust. It figures we’d hit a snag. Things were going so well. I’d been mentally kicking myself for not having thought of doing a live show sooner. Now, of course, I was faced with the one pitfall presented by live TV. There would be no do-overs.

I scan the room for Cynthia. The crew that moments ago was hustling all over the place now stands impatiently at their posts, eager for