The secret of the billionaire's heart

As Emily Chase stared at her laptop's glowing cursor, the hubbub of the newsroom faded into the background. She could only hear the terrible silence of her blank screen, despite the bustle of keyboards and whispered voices. She understood the irony that a journalist without a story was as worthless as a painter without a brush. The pressure of the impending deadline caused her to rub her temples. She still had nothing after two hours.

"Chase!" Margaret Hart's piercing voice sliced like a whip across the clamor. Emily turned to see her editor standing over her desk, her sharp features etched with a familiar frown. Even the most seasoned reporters were made to feel like interns by Margaret. "Is there anything you can give me?" Margaret snapped, impatient in her tone.

"Not yet, but I-"

"Please don't hurt me. This is your tale." Margaret, looking as icy and uncompromising as usual, thumped a document onto Emily's desk. Emily paused, lingering on the folder with her fingers. Her stomach roiled when she eventually opened it. She was surprised to find the name Damien Blackwood at the top of the first page, bolded. Her voice was barely above a whisper as she cautiously stated, "I thought he was off-limits."

A tiny, sardonic smirk curved Margaret's lips. "No longer. The superiors want him to do something. Something significant. Something to sell papers. The golden goose of journalism was Damien Blackwood, a mysterious tech billionaire. In addition to having a Midas touch for business, he was plagued by a litany of scandals. However, nobody had ever been able to break through the curtain of secrecy that surrounded his life.

Emily scowled as she perused the folder's information. "I don't know-"

Margaret cut you off, saying, "I don't care about your doubts."

"Split the narrative. How you do it doesn't matter to me. Please deliver anything to me by next week."

Emily was left staring at the packet as Margaret pivoted on her heel and went back to her office before Emily could object. She sat transfixed, the illumination of her computer screen seeming to mock her. A cursory search turned up the same rehashed headlines: Tech Giant Damien Blackwood Strikes Again and The Billionaire No One Can Touch. Nothing fresh.

Then she noticed a passing reference to a ten-year-old whistleblower scandal. The tale had been buried nearly as soon as it came to light, and the details were hazy. Nevertheless, there was a break in Blackwood's unbreakable exterior. With her fingers poised over the keyboard, Emily paused. At last, she composed a brief email:

Mr. Blackwood,

For an article about the most important people in the computer industry, I would want to interview you. Please let me know when you are available.

Her chest constricted with a mixture of fear and excitement as she pressed "send." Her phone buzzed hours later as the city lights flickered outside and the newsroom emptied. When she saw the sender's name, Damien Blackwood, her breath caught. The message was succinct and to the point:

I don't give interviews. Don't meddle with my business.

Her curiosity was aroused, yet her stomach roiled. Blackwood's answer simply strengthened her determination. She had no intention of giving up.

Later in the evening, the uneasiness started. Emily saw a shadow outside the window as she sat at her desk, her mind racing. With her heart racing, she froze. "Who is present?" She called out, trying to sound steady but her voice was shaking. The city below hummed faintly, but there was no answer.

The shadow changed as she got closer to the window, now clearly visible. Just outside the glass, a man was silhouetted against the dim streetlight glow. As Emily closed the blinds, her heartbeat accelerated. She mumbled, attempting to get rid of the nagging paranoia, "Get a grip, Emily."

As she walked home from the workplace, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being followed. Every sound appeared to be heightened in the silence as her footsteps reverberated through the still streets. She kept looking over her shoulder, but there was nobody on the walkways.

Upon arriving at her flat, she fell onto the couch with a wave of fatigue. However, the uneasiness persisted. Her phone then buzzed once more. It was an unidentified number this time.

Give up on the story. Otherwise.

Her blood froze. "Who is this?" she typed in answer. Almost immediately, the response was:

This is your only warning.

She put down the phone with trembling hands. She thought about phoning the cops for a second. What could she say, though? That an unknown source had sent her a mysterious text message? They would write her off as insane or, worse, paranoid. Rather, she turned her laptop on. She was only onto anything if someone was attempting to frighten her away.

Emily searched through previous interviews, newspapers, and public documents to learn more about Blackwood's past. She discovered a mysterious investment that had turned Blackwood's faltering startup into a billion-dollar empire almost overnight, tales of a whistleblower who disappeared after accusing his company of fraud, and reports of a falling out with his family. She had created a list of possible sources before morning, including old coworkers, business associates, and even rival companies. In the hopes that someone would be open to speaking, she sent out a barrage of emails.

Once more, her phone buzzed. It was Margaret this time.

Chase. Arrive at the workplace. Right now.

Emily's heart pounded as she snatched up her coat and hurried to the newsroom, mentally reliving the events of the previous evening. Margaret was pacing her office when she got there, her face strained and pallid.

"What's happening?" As she entered, Emily inquired.

Grinning, Margaret turned and gave Emily a manila envelope. Emily's breath caught as she opened it. Pictures were showing her walking to the metro, sitting at her desk, and leaving her apartment. Every picture was taken within the last 24 hours.

"What is this?" Emily's voice was unsteady as she whispered.

Margaret crossed her arms. "I hoped you could let me know. This morning, these were delivered to the front desk. No return address, no note."

Emily's mind was racing. Not only was someone alerting her, they were also keeping an eye on her. Margaret's voice was low and solemn as she drew closer.

"Chase, you could have pricked the wrong bear. Do you really want to continue?"

Emily's determination solidified as she gazed at the pictures. Her stomach twisted with fear, but she forced it out of her mind. The only indication that the narrative was worthwhile was if someone wanted her to stop.