Page 1 of My Boss is a Billionaire

Chapter1

Harper

Irock back in my squeaky fake leather chair, satisfied with the piece I’ve just finished—the piece that will solidify my career as a senior editor. I’ve double and triple checked it and ensured every quote and reference is legit.

Once in a while, I like to do a little investigative reporting. After all, I studied journalism in school. But small-town living isn’t the hive of newsworthy stories you’d find in a big city. Our front-page articles focused on community events, the odd arrest, and who got married.

For the past few months, however, the subject of interest has been Liam Jacobs and the distribution center he plans to build.

Mr. Jacobs is a billionaire who likes to play with people’s livelihoods. He thinks he can use his money to buy whatever business piques his interest, gut the thing—staff—and all, and create something new. Only to turn around and sell it off to the highest bidder later so he can move on to his next venture.

Sure, his latest pet project may create a few jobs, first with construction and then later when it’s operational. But I don’t like his approach. Men like him don’t care about the people. They only care about the dollars flowing into their fat bank accounts.

I was intrigued and optimistic when the rumor mill started churning six months ago. This rich dude identified our small town of Springdale as his next location for a distribution center for some big online retailer. I understand the logic. We’re located in the central United States, so shipping products out in either direction would be a piece of cake.

But as I dug into his background, I found things that disturbed me—rumors of rough conditions, high stress, low pay, and lack of benefits for the employees involved in the initial work, even after the handoff. Never mind that rather than scope out vacant land to build on, he often scoops up an existing business for its prime location, only to tear the structure down so he can build the new one.

And there’s little to no personal information about the man. He doesn’t seem to be a playboy, as the single rich often seem to be, so how and who does he spend his downtime with? There’s no mention of a wife, family, or girlfriend. Of course, he’s been photographed many times. And even though the images I found aren’t perfect and are taken from a distance, I can still tell the man is handsome. I’m guessing he must be at least six-three, with tousled brown hair, I hope eyes to match, and a drool-worthy physique. Rarely is he photographed with somebody on his arm. The man is good-looking and rich. I don’t buy it. It only piques my interest more.

In my latest article about his tactics, I compare him to various conquerors through the ages who took great pleasure in dropping in to rape and pillage the village before leaving, not giving a shit about the carnage they left behind. Could it be that women are too wise to fall for that and avoid him? Hmm… Something to think more about.

Maybe I’m being a tad harsh—a smidge—but I am historically correct, especially regardinghishistory. I’m going to educate our townspeople. Give them the information they need before they consider whether to accept his bid at the town council meeting. We need to know his plans before agreeing to anything.

I have two weeks.

It wasn’t an easy task, but I’ve crafted a scathing yet honest and accurate piece that will hopefully impact his plans and this town. I plan to turn the tide of opinion. I’ve been like a dog with a bone over this for weeks now, and while I take great pride in every article I write, I’ve poured my heart and soul into this one in particular. I just hope it’s enough to make a difference. Liam Jacobs needs to be stopped. Or at least he needs to come clean regarding his intentions.

We need to understand the man we’re dealing with. Can we trust him?

I haven’t even breathed before my boss knocks on the open door to my office. In today’s world of social media and the digital footprint, I love that Springdale still has a local newspaper. Of course, we’re online as well, but for those who love the feel of newsprint in their hands or don’t have computers, we still offer the actual thing. Once a week, every week, for the past fifty-odd years.

“Come in, Marty.”

He enters my office and sits in my guest chair, adjusting his weight for the short leg that causes the chair to tilt to the left. He has a slight smile, as if he’s amused, despite the seriousness of this article and the fallout that will come. But he knows me. He knows I won’t back down, even for him.

“Big talk,” he says, shaking his head, his glasses wobbling on the end of his nose. “You sure about this? You want to poke the bear? Mr. Jacobs won’t take this one sitting down, Harper.”

I glance up at him, feeling a slight twinge of anxiety. I’m confident I’ve done the right thing. But it’s hard to ignore thatlittleinkling of fear that I’ve stirred the pot. While I haven’t met the asshat, I am quite certain he’s unhappy with my work. His office has called our office, insisting we stop publishing the articles.

Good thing it’s my role as Senior Editor to give the final go-ahead.

“Yes.” I keep my voice steady. “I’m sure. Somebody has to tell the truth. To show the residents of this town the man we’re dealing with. Or to at least get him to come clean about his plans. Why leave us guessing for so long if he’s not hiding anything?” I don’t understand why I’m one of the few asking these questions.

Marty looks at me for a few moments, then nods. “I’m proud of you, Harper. You’ve done a great job with this series. You have a good head on your shoulders, and I admire you for standing up for what you believe in. I hope it works out like you want it to.”

Warmth spreads through my chest at his kind words. “Thank you, Marty. I’m glad you think so. Honestly, whatever the town council decides, I can accept and live with. I just want them going into that discussion with all the information and their eyes wide open.”

He smiles at me as he pushes his six-foot bulky frame up from my chair and walks back to the door. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Regardless of the outcome, you’ve done a great job. Take the rest of the day off.”

I glance at the old cloudy-faced clock on the wall and then the window, where sunset has long since passed. “Quitting time was two hours ago, Marty.”

He shoots me a wink and leaves me alone in the dimly lit space. I sigh, relieved that he’s on my side and grateful for his support. Taking a deep breath, I stretch my arms out in front of me before getting back to work. I’m excited about the chance to give people the information they need to make an informed decision.

When I glance up again, I realize it’s getting late. I’ve missed dinner, and I’ve missed my favorite crime-fighting show on television.

I gather my things, turn out the lights, and lock up the building. Living in downtown Springdale means you can walk everywhere, even late at night, and my tiny apartment over the bakery is close to the paper. As I make the short trek home, I can’t help but feel a sense of pride and satisfaction.

I had done it—I had taken on the challenge of exposing Liam Jacobs and the truth about his business tactics. Now it’s just a matter of seeing what happens next.

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