The Billionaire's Howl

Lila’s POV

“Dear Ms. Lila Wrenn.

This is a formal letter of notice for your missed rent payments for the months of February and March and to remind you that you have still not fully paid off the rent for the month of January. Please pay the owed amount of $10,482 or we will have no choice but to terminate your contract and begin eviction notices.

Sincerely,

Westpoint Apartment Complex Superintendent,

Sal Berton.”

Short and to the point, a rather elegant way to tell someone to pay up or get tossed to the streets. This letter was haunting me all day to the point I could barely focus on work—which was ironic since work was the thing that would fix this.

Probably. Hopefully.

As much as I loved being a journalist, I wasn't exactly writing frontpage articles or inflammatory political drama. Less and less people needed journalists, especially when there were plenty of bloggers and freelancers around to write whatever someone asked for—but it was the integrity of the role, damnit.

Journalists were investigators. We were supposed to go out and find the stories and the truth, whatever that truth was; not just write ‘feel good’ articles.

Still, I wasn’t exactly hoofing it around the city trying to scrounge up political scandals either. That wasn’t my job.

I worked in the local news for a small-time paper, talking to and making connections with the local community and getting their stories. It was the stuff I loved doing; going out, hearing other people's stories and writing about them so they didn’t remain unheard.

If love and passion paid the bills though, I wouldn't be having this problem to begin with.

All I needed though was one good story this week, and I'd be able to make things work. The last thing I wanted to do was quit my dream job because I couldn’t make ends meet.

My computer screen, however, was painfully empty of material and the little projects I could pick up weren’t going to be enough to pull me out of this downward spiral of debt.

"That is some expression,” a voice called out from behind me. “Did 'Mr. Thompson' do something again?"

"Hi Mia," I sighed, managing a small smile for my friend. From her worried expression, the stress was getting to me more than I thought.

Mia Moore was my best friend and had been since I first started working at The Local Tribune. She worked in the Literature Department writing about whatever best-selling novels were currently on the ‘must-read’ list.

Fantasy Romance always seemed to be hot, or at least to Mia, with how often she was reading some story about love featuring a vampire or ghost.

"You look tired, Lila. I know things have been rough since Maxwell screwed you over, but you know I don't mind helping you out, right?"

"I know, and I love you for that, Mia, but you just got out of your college debt yourself. I'm not gonna drag you into mine."

I was firm on this decision. Even if the help would've made things easier on me, I was not about to put my friend through the same stress I was under.

Besides, it was my fault for being so stupid and believing that rat bastard. I was a journalist. You'd think I'd be smarter and see through the lies to get to the truth. He played me for a fool and I was still bitter from our inevitable breakup despite it being months already.

"Alright, but I'm here if you need me. Speaking of being needed though, floor wide meeting in five. The boss man wants everyone not currently working on something to come for the meeting."

That was interesting. I don't think I’d heard anything about a meeting today. Usually, floor wide meetings only happened when there was big news we needed to write about, but that was usually for the voting season or holiday season. This was something else. Potentially it was a scoop or story, the kind I currently needed to be a part of.

I nodded. "Alright, I'll head on down then."

It wasn’t like I was making any progress anyways.

The conference room wasn’t anything too fancy; a table with chairs around the edges, a projector screen for when someone hooked up their computer, and blinds to block out distractions.

The whole room was packed though. Mia was right, the boss really did get everyone who wasn’t out working on a story or pouring over their articles for publishing.

“Alright, is everyone here?” Mr. Gilbert asked. When we all murmured an affirmative, he smiled. Mr. Gilbert was a great guy. He was sometimes a bit intense, but he was passionate, and we all respected that. “Good, good,” he continued. “I’m sure you’re all curious about why I called you. I have a contact within one of the local news crews and managed to get us a spot in the Silvius press conference this weekend.”

The room burst into sound. How could we not when we received news like that?!

A story on the Silvius press conference. Our little newspaper got a spot at the Silvius press conference?!

Silvius Enterprises was the biggest tech company in the world, making leaps and bounds in innovation with their biotechnology and renewable fuel sources. It was a company that was worth billions of dollars run by one man at its head: Rafe Silvius.

He was a household name by this point. If I didn’t know who he was, I’d be truly out of touch.

Rafe Silvius was the wealthiest man alive and currently the number one bachelor in every magazine. His name and company were something regularly seen on the news, as their medical technology was some of the most trustworthy and reliable in the market.

Their unveilings always had heavy media coverage. There was no way the average person could even get near the building without their name on the list.

Hell, the local law enforcement wasn't even allowed in without permission, that’s how big this conference was—and how powerful the company was.

This wasn't going to be just another event; this was THE event for the newest line of medical tech and medicine that would be available to the public.

For a company worth billions, their public support and likability was extremely high, making them extremely popular. Everyone wanted to know what was happening behind the scenes, meaning that everyone was going to be writing about it eventually. But this time, The Local Tribune was going to be one of the first to do so.

It was both a publicity and sales boost that would do our paper some good.

I wanted that story.

I NEEDED that story.

“Alright alright, enough!” Mr. Gilbert snapped, quieting everyone down. “I know you’re excited, but there’s only one pass, meaning only one person is going. Now, I don't want anyone starting or saying shit about playing favorites or some other BS. You’re all adults and good, capable writers. So, this is the solution.”

He held up a cup full of popsicle sticks and my heart sank into my stomach at the sight. Lots. We were drawing lots. I didn’t gamble; correction, I DON’T gamble. The odds were always against me, and my luck was abysmal with things like this.

My mother took me gambling on a casino boat when I was old enough for the ‘experience’. However, the only ‘experience’ I got was dropping $500 on bets and games that never won me more than $20 dollars as my ‘big winnings.’

I could easily say that I was the worst with games of chance and luck.

“I don’t care what order you come up in, but don’t be animals about it,” Mr. Gilbert continued, shaking the cup around slightly. “Each person grab a stick so we can get this over with and get to doing the real work. We’re already short for time, so I need someone on this story NOW.”

We didn’t need to be told twice. Everyone was clearly impatient to have a go at it, but at least they were holding onto some semblance of manners.

Each failed lot was like a small shot of adrenaline to my systems as Mr. Gilbert came closer and closer to my side of the room.

1 in 30 chances.

1 in 16 chances.

1 in 7 chances.

And then, it was my turn. Not terrible odds. For me though, it was still a poor chance.

‘Come on’, I begged as I pulled out a lot.

I stared at the popsicle stick.

Green. It was green. The color of go. Start. Money. The billionaire winnings were staring me in the face.

Holy shit. A popsicle stick had never been so beautiful.

A decade’s worth of luck just went into that draw. I could never gamble on anything ever again—but I got it. I got the story.

"Well, congratulations, Wrenn! Looks like you're covering the Silvius story.” Collective groans began around the room and Mr. Gilbert sighed. “Shut up!" he snapped. “She got it fair and square. If you wanted it that badly then you should've come up sooner or chose better. Wrenn, Friday at 9:00am. Get here to pick up your pass and head to the Silvius building for the press conference at 10:30."

"Of course, sir," I said, doing my best not to vibrate out of my body with excitement.

This was just what I needed. With this story, I would get my life back on track. I could fix my last mistake, prove I could do this, and finally move up in my position in the paper.

I could NOT afford to mess this up.

"Congratulations, Lila!" Mia clapped me on the back, cheering softly. This time my smile was a lot more real.

Rafe Silvius. I couldn’t believe it. Whatever he was coming out with in the conference, I promised myself that my article would do it justice and that I would be the one to unveil it’s mastery.

Rafe’s POV

I was close to losing it. The pretty blonde across from me was batting her lashes and touching me casually, but it wasn’t very welcomed. I could feel my jaw ache from the tension.

What a shame. I had hoped that I was just imagining her popping another button on her blouse, and that her changing her hairstyle from a bun to cascading curls was just a stylistic choice and not flirting.

“Is that everything, Ms. Wimbley?” I managed to bite out without too much venom. But she didn’t notice at all.

Pity, this would be coming out of nowhere then.

“Oh, Mr. Silvius. I told you to call me Sarah. And yes, that's everything for this evening.”

“Wonderful!” I clapped my hands together and smiled sharply. “Now that that’s done, don’t bother coming in tomorrow. You can take your two weeks' notice along with two weeks of paid vacation.”

She paled dramatically, instantly straightening up and trying to act professional once more, as if it would salvage the situation.

“W-wait! Mr. Silvius–!”

“Ms. Wimbley, I’ve made it quite clear that I don’t tolerate distractions during work hours. And flirting is definitely a distraction from your own work. So, seeing as you cannot adhere to your contract, I’ve no choice but to fire you.”

I walked away despite the visible distress on her face.

To her, it probably came out of nowhere, but she agreed to the terms and conditions. It wasn’t my fault that she didn’t adhere to them.

I closed my office door behind me and sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of my nose and trying to calm down. Why was it so hard to find a good secretary? Did they think that because I treated them kindly that they had a chance of romancing me?

That kindness and a good working relationship equated romantic feelings?

It was almost insulting, but I gave them credit for the sheer balls of trying where no one’s succeeded yet.

The door opened and I held back a snarl. But instead of Ms. Wimbley coming to beg for a second chance like I thought it might be, it was Leo. My shoulders slumped in relief, even as I winced at the shrill sobbing sound coming from the hall.

“Damnit Leo! Close the door already. I can barely think with that infernal racket.”

“That ‘infernal racket’, as you so put it, is your fault,” Leo snorted, but he at least closed the door to preserve my sanity. “What are we up to now? Number five? I can’t believe she lasted a whole year only to pull this.”

“Yes, I am just as surprised as you are. And right before the press event too,” I sighed. “You’ll have to cover for her.”

“What?! Come on, I just got back from checking in with your sister. Don’t I get a break?”

“You can have one after the conference. You know I’ll never find a replacement in time – nor anyone we could trust to cover the event so soon.”

Leo made a face but at least he was in agreement with me. With how strict our vetting process was, there was no way we’d find someone within a few days and training would take weeks.

The only person who I trusted to manage this properly was Leo. He had been by my side for years and I knew he wouldn’t screw me over, or make a mistake. He had my back like I had his.

“Fine, I’ll review everything tomorrow and be your stand-in secretary, but I’m not dressing up for it.”

“Tragic,” I said dryly. “I’ll send over the schedule copy.” I winced when he opened the door, rubbing my forehead as a headache started to form. “And for the love of the Goddess, tell her to clean her desk and leave already.”

“Standing in for her was a favor, you’re gonna owe me for this one,” he warned with a teasing smile on his face before leaving.

After he left, I groaned. I better start looking for a replacement. I couldn’t have Leo stand in as my secretary forever.

Maybe the next one would be better. I could only hope.