The Billionaire's Revenge (Tycoon Billionaires 3)

The foyer was the epitome of calm compared to the chaos outside, and it was a contrast to the gothic building – it was modern and chrome, and the marble floor sparkled. It was as if the entire interior had been gutted and rebuilt, while retaining the superficial ‘shop front’ outside. There were several security guards in here too, standing still as statues – waiting for some action. She ignored the shiver of doubt that prickled down her spine and approached the corporate-looking woman behind the plush reception desk.

“Hi, I’m Eleanor Davison. It’s my first day.”

The woman threw her a plastic smile. “Right. Just look into this camera, please.”

Eleanor looked at the web-cam that was stuck to the woman’s computer, and it started to whirr. The receptionist typed something into her keyboard, then she smiled robotically. “That’s fine. Your retina scan has been approved.” She reached for the phone. “I’ll let them know you’ve arrived.”

“Thanks. Um… why are all those angry people outside?”

“Oh, you know, some people will protest about anything, won’t they?”

“Will they?”

“Sure. Please take a seat.”

Feeling as if she was in a dystopian sci-fi movie, Eleanor sat down on the beige leather couch and waited nervously for fifteen minutes until a frantic-looking middle-aged man appeared. He was balding with a bad comb-over, and he’d rolled up his shirt-sleeves to the elbows. He looked as if he was about to have a nervous breakdown from too much stress or too little caffeine. “Ellie, hi – great to meet you!”

“It’s Eleanor,” she said, shaking his clammy hand. He stank of cigarettes and coffee.

“I’m Gerald Stinger – I’m the editor for the team you’ve been allocated to. Come on, I’ll show you around.”

Eleanor followed him through a corridor and up some stairs. There were guards dotted around the stark stairwells, as well as red signs on the walls warning personnel to be vigilant of potential attacks. She could sense fear seeping through the walls back here, and the tension hit her hard as Gerald led her to the open-plan section where her new colleagues were frantically shouting into phones, and at each other.

It was more manic than the stock exchange. The corporate façade seemed to only exist in the foyer, and the décor back here consisted of blue carpet tiles, cheap plywood desks, and grubby walls that were adorned with framed photos of classic front-page scandals. There was one of Joseph Quinlan from a few weeks ago when he’d made an innocent remark about supporting gay marriage. The paper had gone insane, implying that he might be gay. Eleanor wasn’t sure how they got away with such allegations, but she had a terrible feeling she was about to find out. She inhaled a whiff of liquor as she strode past a man and woman who were arguing fiercely. No one smiled at Eleanor or even spoke to her. A few people glanced over and exchanged smirks. She knew what they were thinking: You won’t last five minutes here. Unfortunately, she was inclined to agree. She’d wanted to be a journalist all her life, but not like this. She wasn’t afraid of conflict situations, but these people were like rabid hyenas. She shook away her frantic doubts. It was going to be okay. She could handle this; she’d been through worse and survived. She just needed to get through Mr Robertson’s little test and she’d be working for the broadsheet in no time.

Gerald halted and spun to face her. “Right, Ellie, this is your desk. Did you have a story in mind?”

Eleanor’s head swam with confusion, desperate to keep up. “No… I hadn’t really thought about it.”

Gerald pulled up a tatty chair. “Sit down; don’t look so scared. I’ll explain… give you the induction, right? You’re in my team, which means I want you to succeed.”

“Thank you,” she said, sitting.

“Don’t thank me. I’m paid on commission – we all are. If my team does well, I get rewarded. We’re all in competition with each other – especially us and the team across the hall. We hate them. And I don’t mean that in a jokey corporate way, I mean it. We hate them. They steal our stories, we steal their contacts… Robertson’s set us against each other and now we have all to play the game, or we’re out.”

She felt like a smudge of algae. “It sounds like hell.”

“It is hell, Ellie. And you’d better get your shit together quick, because there’s no room for losers here – not in my team. I could fire you for whatever. We’re all desperate for the front page. If you don’t give me that, then your career’s over. Get it?”

Eleanor swallowed her fear. She felt as if she was drowning. But she steeled herself and sat up tall. “Right, okay. Er… is there a story you could… I mean, it’s my first day. Can you at least point me in the right direction?” She winced. “For the team?”

He leaned towards her. “I can give you some tricks of the trade and a lead – how’s that?”

“Okay. Yes please – that would be... thank you.”

He scratched his head. “Alright. You heard of the soap star Pierre Dupont?”

“Umm… He’s in that thing about cops working undercover, right?”

“Right, well, he’s a good-looking guy; popular with the ladies you’d think, huh?”

“I suppose so.”

“And he’s married. So I’ve got a feeling he might be in some trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

Gerald smothered her with contempt. “That’s for you to find out, Ellie.”