Chapter 4
4
EMBER
Level ninety-eight.
Level ninety-nine.
Level one hundred.
Here I am.
Waylen Penmayne’s level... the highest in this skyscraper.
The billionaire’s office.
The scariest freaking place in the whole world.
Time to face the big dog.
With an ominous ding , the elevator doors slide open, and I can’t help to quash the dreaded feeling that my fate – and my future in the career I love – awaits me, and that it is set to blow to smithereens.
The first thing that I’m hit with is the word PENMAYNE in large glowing letters above the receptionist. Yes, Waylen is a man who doesn’t do anything half-hearted or with any level of subtlety. The woman sitting beneath it I recognize as being Waylen’s private secretary, and she’s facing the elevator doors so that when they open, she is staring right at me with icy blue eyes that burn through my body.
“Hello,” I say to her as I step out of the elevator.
The receptionist glowers behind her impressive desk with her platinum blonde hair and pursed lips.
“Name?” she asks me formally.
“I’m Ember Mortensen. I believe Mr. Penmayne is expecting to see me...”
“He is.”
She’s so very curt.
“Great,” I reply in my bubbliest tone. The secretary is unmoved.
She is emotionless. Cold. She is so very unlike Clarice all the way downstairs.
“Follow me,” she barks.
The receptionist rises from her chair and glides toward me, ushering me to the main doors with a tilt of her pretty head. She knocks only once and then swings the doors open, nodding at me again wordlessly to follow.
This is the moment...
I step into Waylen’s private office.
It’s a big room, that’s for sure. Wall-to-ceiling windows that look out over the city. One large mahogany desk that stretches intimidatingly in front of me. Waylen is a billionaire who wants to revel in his otherworldly power and influence. This is a man who controls a media empire that can topple governments with just a single hard-hitting article and who can bring down a country’s central bank with a mere sharp headline. He can cause wars and famine and peace with a simple stroke of a pen.
Waylen wants you to know that when you step inside his skyscraper office you are meeting a VERY IMPORTANT PERSON.
The man himself is standing by one of the windows, his back turned to me formidably. He’s like a god looking out over his domain from the tallest tower of his castle.
Should I say something or...
The receptionist leaves me in the lion's den. She retreats back until she’s closing the door from the other side, initiating me to be totally alone with Waylen Penmayne.
With the doors shut, the billionaire finally turns around to face me.
He is more handsome in person than he appears in photos. A real silver fox stands in front of me. Tall. Stately. His face is chiseled. His eyes are sharp and intelligent. His silver hair is in a perfect quiff. He wears a black suit, expertly tailored.
“Ember Mortensen,” he purrs in a smooth, deep baritone.
Oh, he knows my name?
“Mr. Penmayne.”
He nods toward his desk with a slight turn upwards of his lips.
“Please take a seat, Ember.”
I shuffle over and sit down opposite him. Waylen slowly takes his own place behind the threatening desk. I notice a printout of my latest published article resting in front of me. It’s clear he must’ve read it.
This doesn’t feel good.
Why else would he read my writing?
I can’t help but think of the people who have been summoned up here to get unceremoniously fired in the most devasting of ways.
Is that what’s happening to me right now?
Beside my laid-out article is a photo frame containing an image of the Penmayne family. There are seven boys in the picture with a younger-looking Waylen and his wife. They’re all smiling. A big, happy family. I can’t help but notice no daughters. He has a lot of sons, that’s for sure.
Waylen takes his time to speak again. He stares at me. I don’t know if I should open my mouth first or let him do what he wants to do.
“You’ve been brought to my attention, Ember,” he finally mutters darkly.
Okay, now I’m scared.
“Um, whatever it is you’ve heard about me, it’s a lie,” I say.
I let out a little squeak of a giggle. I’m trying to joke around, but Waylen has no time for my jokes. He cuts me off sharply.
“Do you know anything about Connor Penmayne?” he asks.
My eyes narrow.
“Connor? Your son?”
Waylen leans back in his chair.
“He doesn’t want to be part of the family anymore,” he says. “Have you heard about that?”
I shake my head.
“I don’t really go in for tabloid gossip,” I explain.
Is this the end of my journalist career, and he’s talking about his estranged son?
“You should,” the billionaire replies. “Tabloid gossip is what has made me a lot of money. I would go so far as to say it’s my job .”
“Sir, I really don’t know much about your son,” I say. “I know you have a lot of sons, but I know absolutely nothing about Connor Penmayne.”
Despite my denial of knowledge, I do know about Arthur Penmayne - the one son who was tragically killed in a car accident. That was big news when it happened, and I remember reading about it when I joined this company. I know it really deeply scarred the Penmayne family. I know they don’t really want to talk about him, and I’m certainly not about to do that now.
I can see a young Arthur in the photo on Waylen’s desk. All the sons look alike in that beautiful Penmayne way, but I recognize the boy. I know it’s just a photo, but he has kind eyes. He must’ve had a kind soul.
Waylen nods at my answer and softly smiles to himself.
“Well, I want you to find out about Connor,” he says.
I take in a deep breath.
This doesn’t sound like a firing...
“Find out about him? May I ask why you would want me to do something like that?”
“Because I want you to write an article about him,” Waylen says bluntly. “I want it to be a puff piece that he might like the pleasure of reading.”
Am I hearing this right?
“You want me to make some ass-kissing piece... for him?”
Waylen chuckles.
“I admire your attitude, Ember,” he says. “You remind me of a younger me. I’ll put things bluntly, so as to not waste your time or mine. Yes , I want you to write an ass-kissing piece. I want you to kiss Connor’s ass. I want it to be such a good ass-kissing that my son reads it and understands that he is a Penmayne and that he should really get back in touch with his family. And with me.”
What?
Is this what billionaires do with family trouble? Use their company to sort it out? Their employees?
What kind of world is this?
“I normally deal with investigative journalism,” I reply. “Not tabloid gossip, and especially no ass-kissing.”
“This is investigative,” my boss says. “This is more important than anything you’re currently doing.”
I think about the corrupt senator and the African warlord.
Really? More important than any of that?
Surely he’s seen all the other work I’ve done recently?
He must be joking around. Is this the way media billionaires have fun?
“What do you want me to do with Connor?” I ask tentatively. “What exactly do you want me to write about him?”
“Investigate him, as you have clearly demonstrated in your prior work with my company. I want you to talk to him. Interview him. Get him to open up.”
“In person?”
“Yes.”
I think about this Connor guy. Doesn’t he live in the Penmayne’s hometown? Isn’t that some remote place in some corner of the country?
“In Crystal River?” I ask. “You want me to go there and speak to him?”
I don’t know the place. I have never been there to that small town. I have only heard about Crystal River through its connection with my boss’ family. It’s where their mansion is, but other than that, there’s nothing of note about the town.
“Where else would you go?” Waylen asks me rhetorically.
“So... an interview with your son...”
The man stands up.
“I’m going to cut this meeting short,” he announces bluntly. “My helicopter is ready on the pad upstairs. I’ve got a late lunch with the President. I’m sure you understand enough of what I want. I don’t need to spell it out for you. There’s enough for you to make a start.”
“The President? Of where?”
“This country, Ember.”
Oh, sure. Lunch with the President of the United States. That’s perfectly normal.
“Yes, I better get going to my lunch with the Dalai Lama,” I reply. “Don’t want to be late for that.”
Well, I am having a lunch date... with my friend. But she’s certainly no reincarnation of a god.
My comment surprisingly makes the billionaire laugh. It’s more than a refined chuckle - he actually found my comment amusing.
“I like you, Ember Mortensen,” he says. “I like your work. That’s why I’ve personally picked you for this assignment. You better write something interesting about Connor. I’ll be reading.”
Oh. This is real. This is happening. I think I would prefer being fired than face this.
Fuck.