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The faint, mocking smirk on his face makes me want to stand up from the table and leave. I hate you, Jonah Crown. My feelings must show on my face because his smirk broadens into a knowing smile.
“If I can’t publish while I’m here, the paper will have no value when I get it back.” Something he should understand. I hope he understands, because I have very little bargaining power here. I want to run and hide. I hate being the subject of his mocking scrutiny. I’m the face behind a pen name, not a woman who goes toe-to-toe with billionaires.
“If you get it back. And as you say, Ms. Thompson, I’m paying a million dollars to humiliate you. Your gossip rag’s value can go to zero for all I care.”
His cruelty takes my breath away. Everything we’ve worked for over the years. My father’s dream. Mine. All the loyal readers who depend on us. “Why?” I ask. My voice trembles a little. Get it together. “Why do you hate us?”
He leans in, his dark eyes holding mine. “You took something from me. Something I waited years to achieve. You went after my family.” His nostrils flare, his eyes flash. He’s angry. Angrier than he’s willing to let on. He sits back, and his impassive mask falls back into place. “You stole my revenge. And now I’ll get it any way I can.”
His family? I never went after his family. “What do you mean went after your family? I’ve never done that.” I’m pretty ethical for a paparazzo, not that he seems to care.
“Oh? What do you call it when you sell photos of my sister to Green Media? What about when you start writing articles about her? Following her? What about when the photos you sell turn into this?” He reaches into the leather folio and pulls out the article I saw while he was in his office. He smacks it on the table accusingly.
“What does the title say, Ms. Thompson? Read it for me.” His voice is low and vicious.
I clear my throat. “Christine Crown. Cheating Scandal and Weight Gain—is She on the Brink?” I look back up at him. His eyes are flat and cold. The article goes on to imply that Christine’s wife is cheating on her and that she’s getting fat as a result.
Sympathy rises for Christine. I know what it’s like being publicly humiliated. This is why I don’t publish articles like this one. I focus on the good, the light and fluffy. I’d talk about where Christine gets those cute shoes, speculate about whether her baby will look more like her or her wife, even though obviously both their genes aren’t present. That kind of thing.
“Nothing to say?” He scoffs. Guilt twinges. Matt asked me for details about Christine, and I gave them. I should have known Green Media would twist the plain facts into something mean. This is how they operate. Takedowns, not fluff. Jonah has been in their sights for years. I knew it, and I knew a photo of his sister would bring in big money. I chose to ignore the likely consequences.
My mind whirls. “I’m sorry your sister was hurt,” I say carefully. “That wasn’t my intention.”
“Intention and result are two very different things.”
“Maybe I can help you get your revenge.” I do feel bad that Christine is getting caught up in this. And clearly, he really cares about her. She might be the only person he cares about, from what I can see.
His eyes flare with interest. “You’re going to help me get it. On my terms.”
“If you let me publish.” I cross my arms. This is my line in the sand.
“You think you have that kind of leverage over me? How much do you think you’re worth?”
“Enough that you want me to work with you.” I shrug, even though my stomach is tight with nerves.
He smiles without humor. “Do I, Ms. Thompson?”
Our eyes lock. I need him to crack. I need the paper. I need to be able to publish. The dark pools of his eyes flicker with little flecks of golden brown. His mouth parts slightly, like he’s about to speak. But instead he just stares, until the weight of his gaze grows heavy. My skin prickles. Finally, I slump and pick up my pen and paper from the table.
“All right. I wish I could say this was a pleasure, but I think we both know it was incredibly painful.” My eyes flick up to his and for a second, he looks hungry. Ravenous and unsettled.
“You’re leaving?” His voice is lower than before. Does he want me to stay?
“There’s no reason to stay. I’m selling the most important part of my life, and in exchange, I know it will be run to the ground and I’ll be tormented by you for six months. No amount of money is worth that.” I push back from the table and move toward the door. My steps are deliberate. Say something, Jonah.
His chair creaks, and then I hear, “Wait.” He clears his throat. “You can publish. As long as you don’t disclose anything confidential. And you can’t say anything negative about us.”
I turn, finally. His cheekbones are colored slightly, tinged pink. I got to him. I, Callie Thompson, a mere beat reporter, ruffled Satan’s feathers.
“What about you? Can I write bad things about you?”
His eyes go flat. “I’d advise against it, Ms. Thompson.” His voice is silky, and I shiver. I hate that I shiver. I hate how he affects me.
“Anything else?” I ask.
“No fraternization.” His eyes glitter.
“Define fraternization.”
