Vicious Billionaire Rival

The CEO – Adrian

THE CEO

ADRIAN

Barnes & Noble Booksellers was officially two years away from regretting the day it didn’t accept my buyout offer for all seven hundred of its bookstores.

Just like Waterstones in the United Kingdom and every other brick-and-mortar book chain that dared to compete with me, their downfall was inevitable.

Their only advantage was that they hadn’t realized it yet.

Sinclair Street Books, the company I’d been building since I was twenty years old, was bound to become the biggest bookselling empire in the country. Whether everyone else liked it or not.

I pulled into my designated space at our Manhattan location an hour before the doors opened, taking a moment to admire the ten-story building that carried my name.

As always, a small line of loyal readers had already formed outside the entrance, some clutching coffee cups, others reading books beneath the glow of our storefront.

They were the reason I came in early.

Swiping my key against the security pad, I opened the doors and motioned for them to step inside ahead of me.

They deserved it.

I took the glass elevator to the top floor, watching the store come to life beneath me as the staff straightened displays and double-checked the walls of new releases across all ten levels.

The moment the doors opened, I switched on the main lights and waited for my favorite part of every morning.

“Welcome to Sinclair Street” illuminated the ceiling in brilliant green, casting its glittering reflection across the glass storefront.

“Good morning, Mr. Sinclair!” Mariah, my personal assistant, waltzed into my office with a tray. “Today is the perfect day to pen a new chapter in your life!”

“Can you please stop speaking in motivational quotes?” I asked. “You’ve been at it for three months.”

“I will, once you agree to start living a life outside of your job,” she said. “It’s not normal, and it’s why you don’t have any friends.”

“I don’t need any friends,” I said. “They get in the way of success.”

“Success is nothing without anyone to share it with.” She placed her hand over her heart. “A man who only possesses money is poorer than a man who has a family.”

Jesus Christ. “Mariah…”

“Don’t be so busy making a living that you forget to make a life.” She stretched out her arms like she was about to start an interpretative dance.

I blinked.

“Are you done now?”

“That depends.” She tapped her chin. “Can I have this Friday off?”

“For what?”

“My boyfriend and I want to—”

“No.” I didn’t need to hear the rest. “Save it for Saturday or Sunday.”

“Brace for more quotes at lunch, then.” She walked over to my tray and adjusted a few things.

“I added extra cream to your coffee, highlighted the notable books on this week’s bestseller lists, and printed out an advance copy of a column that’s going to make you seethe.”

“Which paper and journalist?”

“Sandra Ross at The New Yorker,” she said. “Want me to spoil her words for you?”

“Yes, please.” I crumpled it and tossed it into the bin across the room.

“You’re a spoiled little rich boy who wants to own every bookstore in the country,” she said. “You’re the only person in this world who could make her vote ‘no’ to throwing Jeff Bezos in the wood chipper if it meant you would take his place.”

“I’m actually flattered by that.” I smiled. “Reprint it in poster size and have it framed for my office.”

“Will do,” she said. “You want it here at this office or at your upcoming Brooklyn location?”

“The Brooklyn one.”

“Consider it done.” She walked away, and before I could take a sip of my coffee in peace, a group of interns rushed into the room and placed stacks of books onto my side table.

I waited for them to leave and brought the cup to my lips, but then my literary director stepped into my doorway.

“Hello, Benjamin,” I said.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he shifted on his feet and clutched his “Books Are My Life” clipboard to his chest.

“Okay, okay.” He stepped inside without making eye contact with me. “Give Mr. Sinclair a greeting, say something nice but not too nice, and maybe ask how he’s doing today.”

“Benjamin,” I said. “I understand you have OCD and you’re still scared of me for some odd reason, but you’ve worked for me for eleven years now. I think we’re at a good point.”

He continued talking to himself.

Of course…

I’d almost fired him for this strange behavior years ago, but then I realized he gave himself pep talks before interacting with everyone in his life. And also, like most people in the book industry, being socially awkward was the norm.

“Good morning, Benjamin.” I couldn’t take it anymore. “How are you today?”

“I’m very good, Mr. Sinclair.” He smiled, finally looking at me. “It’s a good morning indeed.”

“How so?”

“Because we’re on track for another stellar year in book sales.” He moved closer to me. “Our chain is still every publisher’s biggest retailer, and reader satisfaction has never been higher.”

“What about my likability score as a CEO?”

“It’s a negative fifteen, but that’s an improvement from last year’s negative fifty, so you’re moving on up there, sir!”

I rolled my eyes.

“You have a perfect score when it comes to authors,” he said. “They’re very appreciative of how the brand handles book signings and events.”

“Good to know,” I said. “I noticed the ‘Coming Soon’ sign still isn’t up on our new headquarters in Brooklyn. I can’t make the announcement without the sign, so where are we on that?”

“Huh?”

“Our new flagship space—in Brooklyn—that we’ve been talking about for over a year.” I spoke slowly. “What’s the latest update?”

“Oh, update. Um…” He turned away from me. “Did I mention your quarter two earnings are the highest they’ve been since you started this company?”

“No.”

“What about the recent milestones you’ve made at all your London locations?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Answer my question about Brooklyn, Benjamin.”

“You should be proud of everything that you’ve accomplished in your career, sir,” he said, stepping backward. “Sinclair Street Books is truly the best book business in the country. No, the world.”

“I’m aware of that…”

“Well, great! I have to go make a few calls to Simon & Schuster about next year’s frontlist now, so please excuse me.”

“I don’t excuse you.” I glared at him, and he froze in place.

“What are you not telling me about our new Brooklyn store?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head. “It’s a good location, the interior work has gone on in secret like you asked, but…”

“But what?”

“You might need to consider a different location.”

“Why the hell would I do that at this point?”

“Just to make your life easier in the coming months.” He shrugged. “Maybe save yourself a few ‘big bad billionaire coming to town’ protests.”

“I’ve already bought the building,” I said. “They’re installing the elevators next week.”

“Yeah, but, what did it cost you? Fifty million?”

“Ninety.”

“That’s nothing to you in the grand scheme of things, so…” He took a step back and looked to his left.

“I swear to God, Benjamin,” I said, “if you walk out of this office without answering my question—”

“I’ll just run then, bye!” He rushed into the hallway, dropping his clipboard mid-getaway.

You’re lucky you’re so damn good at your job.

I stood up from my desk and collected his board, spotting a note inked in all red on the top page.

DO NOT MENTION THE brOOKLYN STORE AT ALL TODAY.

AT. ALL.

“Huh?”

Confused, I flipped through his sheets, trying to follow his notes, and then I spotted it on page twenty.

There was a photo of my “Coming Soon: A Store You’ll Never Want to Leave…” sign marred with graffiti and a list of scheduled protests.

Nothing unusual.

Every new Sinclair Street opening came with at least one protest, several “Mr. Evil Billionaire” signs, and a creative variation of Sinclair Sucks Ass.

I continued flipping and stopped on the very last page.

It was a photo of a pink and white shop that sat directly across the street.

Slow Burn Books.

It stared at me while Benjamin’s notes danced around it.

Tons of neighborhood loyalty.

Impeccable reputation amongst customers.

Mr. Sinclair might’ve underestimated this store…

“No, I didn’t,” I said, carrying the notes to my desk.

Slow Burn sold romance novels. I sold everything.

If anything, they’d underestimated me.

I picked up my desk phone and called Mariah.

“A smile a day keeps the worries at bay!” she answered. “What do you need?”

“Benny is refusing to give me an update on the Brooklyn location. Is everything outside of interior construction on track?”

Silence.

“Mariah?” I arched a brow. “Are you there?”

“Yeah, uh-huh. Totally here.”

“Then tell me,” I said. “What’s going on with my Brooklyn location?”

“I’m not feeling very well.” She coughed.

“You weren’t sick thirty seconds ago.”

“It’s extremely sudden.”

“Mariah.”

“I should probably take an early lunch.”

“Do you want to lose your job today?”

“There’s a big romance book convention at the Parker Hotel tonight,” she said. “Rumor has it the host got word about the Brooklyn store.”

“And?”

“She teamed up with some of the local bookstores.”

“Of course she did.”

“Including the owner of Slow Burn.”

I looked down at Benny’s clipboard.

“They’re trying to get the mayor involved and shut you down before opening day. Something about neighborhood codes and restrictions.”

“What time does the event start?”

“Eight o’clock.”

“Thank you.”

“Wait. Adrian, you’re not actually going to—”

I hung up.

I’ll handle this nonsense personally.