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I ran the print publishing business.
"I'm focused on the Chronicle," I replied, not happy to be taking over the whole empire. I'd just bought one of New York City's oldest newspapers, the New York Chronicle, which had all but died over the past decade. I wanted to revitalize it and make it the go-to paper for anyone who wanted to know anything about the city, its politics, and culture. I did not want the added pressure of running the entire organization. "I could sure use twenty-five million dollars, but if I have to find a wife and run the corporation, I won't have time to achieve my business goals for the next few years, which are very ambitious. And given my most recent experience, I'm not all that keen on marriage."
"I know your father well enough to know what he'd say in response," Covington said, his eyebrows raised.
"Yeah, I know what he'd say," I replied with a rueful laugh. I glanced around at my brothers. "Suck it up, buttercup," we said in unison.
"Exactly." Covington turned back to his documents, but I could see him struggle to hide a smile.
I glanced around at my brothers; they were smiling to themselves as well, glad for a little levity in the middle of a somber event.
Then, finally, we all laughed together, because we knew our old man exceptionally well. He was that kind of father. Engaged in all our lives despite his massive empire. A loving father with the demeanor of John Houseman in The Paper Chase, or Churchill. An old bulldog, in other words.
I missed him.
I could imagine my father sitting at the head of the table, his eagle-eyes focused like a laser on us, ice blue and unforgiving; his silver hair slicked back; his three-thousand-dollar pinstripe suit impeccable, a cravat in his suit pocket to match his tie. He had been strong, smart, and driven–building a business from the ground up. Buying up his competition, and then getting into every aspect of publishing and broadcasting news until his empire was the second biggest media company in the world. He had been formidable.
Sadly, lung cancer didn't care how powerful he was. Like a typical man, he wrote off the nausea and occasional pain in his chest as bad food from a local taco truck, and by the time he was diagnosed, it was too late. The cancer took him in less than a year, ending his reign as head of our family and his own empire.
I missed him terribly, but as much as I loved him, even I was blindsided by the will and I'm sure every brother felt the same.
The last thing I wanted to think about was finding a wife, given my recent experience with love and marriage…
Chapter Three
Ella
On Monday, a week after I accepted Sharon's offer of the internship, I stood outside Penn Station and debated what to do with the next three hours until I picked up my keys to my Airbnb short-term rental in Chelsea. Early that morning, I'd taken the train from Durham, New Hampshire, after a tearful goodbye to my parents and bestie Steph, and arrived in Penn Station, tired but ready for a new adventure.
My mother strongly disapproved of me up and leaving New Hampshire so soon after breaking up with Jerkface. She was afraid I wouldn’t be able to make it on my own in Manhattan. My father seemed happy that I'd thrown Jerkface over. He'd even fired the bastard and sought legal counsel from another firm, and so I knew I'd made the right move not giving him a second chance. Neither of them wanted me to move away and warned me that I was unused to a city as big as Manhattan, and that I was naïve about life in general, having been sheltered and pampered.
But he did not approve of me working for Dominion Publishing.
"It's a subsidiary of MBS and you know how I feel about that bastard of a J. P. Macintyre."
I'd heard all about my father's hatred of J.P Macintyre, the chairman and CEO of Macintyre Broadcasting Corporation. Their news division had run several in-depth exposes of my father's business partner after he was caught using insider information to sell and buy stock.
Undaunted, I'd made plans to leave and work for Sharon regardless and my father had finally relented when I told him it was a minor part of the overall business empire.
"It's my chance to get my toe in the door of publishing, Daddy," I said, explaining why I had to take the internship despite it being unpaid.
He finally relented and gave me his blessing and I was filled with a renewed hope that the future I once dreamed of living could be possible. I'd do everything in my power not to return to Concord, tail between my legs.
Now that I was finally in Manhattan, I decided to store my luggage in a locker and take the subway to see the building where my internship would start on Wednesday. I grabbed a subway map from the kiosk in the underground station, bought a pass, and tried to figure out how to get to the office.
At one thirty in the afternoon, the place was packed with commuters. It was a bit of a circus, with people dressed for business, both casual and formal, as well as people who looked like they were on the way to work at the local carnival freak show.
I left the subway station and stood for a moment in the middle of the sidewalk, the pedestrian mass parting around me as I soaked up the atmosphere.
Ahh, Manhattan. Tall buildings. Great nightlife. Gorgeous men...
I walked the rest of the way and arrived at the Macintyre Building. An old Art Deco in the middle of the block bordering Central Park, the building was about thirty stories high. It was gorgeous and I couldn't wait to go up and meet Sharon, find my own office and get started.
I saw a coffee shop across the street and decided to grab a coffee before returning to Penn Station to get my luggage and go get my Airbnb. Because the traffic was backed up for the entire block, I decided to jaywalk to the coffee shop instead of going to the crosswalk. I'd barely got half-way across the second lane when I was almost run over by a bike courier in full riding gear threading his way between the cars.
I honestly didn't see him. Traffic was at a full stop and the light was red, so I thought I'd be safe. That was my first mistake. Usually, I was a law-abiding citizen, but it seemed safe enough to cross, given the traffic snarl. I felt him knock against my arm and managed to step back, his shoulder the only thing that touched me as he zipped by. I gasped and held my hands up as I backed away, but it was too late. His bike wobbled as he swerved to avoid me, and he hit the corner of the taxi ahead of him, crashing to the ground, his bike clattering to the pavement.
I covered my mouth in horror and ran to where he lay on the street, his bike in a heap beside him.
