Page 2 of My Boss is a Billionaire

Chapter2

Liam

“Seriously?”

I glance through another of Harper Anderson’s scathing articles about me in the Springdale News. I’m unsure if I should laugh or hurl something at the wall. Considering the cost of most objects within grabbing distance, I skip the demolition part of my tantrum.

She obviously has nothing better to do than stalk my every move and report it in her weekly column. It’s a small fucking town. There must be a wedding or a funeral to cover. Maybe the local restaurant tried a new dish, and it didn’t go over well?

At first, I found it amusing. Now I’m just getting pissed. She’s somehow pulled me into her tiny world, where each week I look forward to seeing what she’ll come up with next, like some kind of sick game.

This time, though, comparing what I do to rape and pillaging—she’s gone too far.

She’s dug up every piece of dirt she can find to bring into question my business tactics, and she’s done it with such finesse that it makes me out to be the villain of her story. She doesn’t even know me, hasn’t bothered to pick up the phone, talk to me, ask for my input, and get my side of the story. Isn’t that what a talented reporter does—verifies the facts?

Yes, I buy up companies, the floundering ones that need to cut their losses and start over. Sometimes I work with another company, as is the case this time, to assist with their expansion needs. Online retail is taking over. Malls are closing up all over the country. We need more distribution centers to carry the inventory and reduce shipping costs and time. Springdale’s central location is the perfect place to build one. And the area in town I’ve got my eye on is in a prime location. Most of the small-business owners in the strip mall are operating on a shoestring budget or have already closed. It will create jobs for those same people.

I toss the sheet of paper onto the sofa cushion next to me and jump to my feet, pacing the room in frustration. I had read it online but had to print it out—because I couldn’t believe the accusations. I also want the proof in print when I meet with the woman.

When this had started, as I do with every attempt to hack away at my professional reputation, I bought shares in the paper that employs her. I was surprised to learn that they still had a physical newspaper, even for a town the size of Springdale. I was even more surprised to discover that the local paper was part of a larger conglomerate. But I’m not interested in the whole thing; I just want the Springdale News. It’s a personal game I play—how far will they go? Until I own them outright? Or will they give up, and then I can sell the shares back? In most cases, I don’t hold a grudge, but I like to prove a point.

This time, however, she’s crossed the line.

The game is over.

I stomp across the room to my desk, yank my phone out of its charger, and scroll through the contacts until I find my stockbroker. With a heavy exhale, I tap the Call button and hold the phone to my ear.

Neil answers in his most professional tone. “Hello, Mr. Jacobs. How can I help you today?” The man is as stodgy as they come, but he’s excellent. And I can trust him to keep my business dealings confidential.

“I need to buy more shares in the Springdale News,” I say without preamble.

“Of course,” he replies. “How many?”

“All of them.”

“That won’t be a problem. It may take a couple of days.”

“Do it,” I instruct and hang up without waiting for a response. Neil won’t mind my abruptness. He’s the action guy in my decision-making.

While I don’t mind getting my hands dirty, I leave the groundwork to my team until it’s time to finalize the contracts. But Harper Anderson has changed the rules of this game. It’s time to make my presence known. And now I’m not only coming to town as the guy tearing down their struggling shopping mall, but also as the new owner of the Springdale News.

Next, I reach out to my assistant and ask her to set up a meeting at the paper for the next day, end of the day. I’ll fly out tomorrow afternoon and spend a night, two at most. I can’t wait to tell the staff, Harper in particular, that I’m the new boss. A smile works its way across my lips.

I’m looking forward to meeting her. To watching her face as she hears that she’s working for me now, a conqueror she so aptly compared me to.

* * *

The next day, after an entire morning of meetings, including a call to Springdale’s mayor, I hop into my personal jet and spend the next two hours reviewing and rearranging my schedule for the few days. From the airport, I have a forty-five-minute drive to Springdale. At least I can continue working in the limo on the way.

At three-thirty in the afternoon, I walk into the office of the Springdale News with a sense of purpose and anticipation.

The small reception area is full of rustic charm, with its weathered wooden counter beckoning visitors to share their tidbits of local gossip. A display sign catches my attention, proudly proclaiming the name of the publication, in black letters, hinting at the legacy I’m about to inherit.

Since nobody has noticed me, I venture further, the vibrant heartbeat of a large-scale newsroom like you see on television nowhere to be found. The air is not crackling with a sense of urgency as reporters scribble feverishly at their desks, gazes flickering between computer screens and handwritten notes.

Oh, there are desks, alright, three of them, empty, in the center of the room and three enclosed spaces at the back. Offices, I presume. I’d bet there’s a tiny kitchenette somewhere back there as well. Oh, wait, no… There’s a small mini fridge and a coffee pot in the back corner.

The squeaking floorboards, the pleather chairs, and the yellowing newspaper clippings on the wall all paint a picture of a paper struggling to keep up with the times.

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