The Billionaire's Byline

He could feel the weight of the city pressing against the glass. From the top floor of his family’s tower building, the view was magnificent—streets blinking with the continuous flow of cars, like a river of light threading through Manhattan, people moving down the sidewalk like an army of ants. It was a view designed to remind him of power. Of control. Of everything that the Cross Empire represented.

Yet, to him, it felt like a gilded cage, a trap closing down on him like an invisible hand.

He grunted and loosened his tie as the boardroom droned behind him. Suits arguing over numbers and acquisitions, on how to squeeze some floundering publisher into their fat portfolio. Their voices were mere static to his ears.

He was supposed to care, to join in the melee. This was his inheritance, his birthright. Instead, his heart clenched, his head throbbed like crazy, threatening to explode.

Another publisher. Another hub of dreams stripped to its bare minimum, then reshaped into the image of Cross-Fielding Media. He could see the headlines now: Cross-Fielding Media takes over So and So Publishing House. Another strategic win for the unbeatable Media giant.

It wouldn’t be the first. It definitely wouldn’t be the last.

What the headlines don’t report on are the lives that were affected by their ‘strategic win’, the people who lost their jobs due to ‘streamlining’, their hopes and dreams shattered by the mere stroke of a pen. His pen.

“Earth to Edward,” his cousin Julian’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Hey, cuz. Are you even listening?”

Twelve pairs of eyes turned to him, waiting. He drew a deep breath and forced his jaw to unclench. “Of course,” he muttered. “I was just…thinking.”

Julian smirked, leaning back in his chair, every inch the perfect Fielding heir Edward’s father had always wanted. Edward had inherited 60 percent of the fortune, but 0 percent of the hunger. No, not even an ounce of the hunger for destruction.

“We were discussing the acquisition of the Evergreen Gazette, Edward. We need to make a move if we want to get it at a bargain price,” a silver-haired man said. It was Craig Sommerset, his father’s golf buddy.

Edward blinked hard to clear his mind and returned to his seat at the head of the table. He could feel their eyes on him, making him want to jump out of his skin.

“What’s the rush, Craig? It’s just a small-town paper. It won’t add much value to Cross-Fielding,” he said.

“You know it’s not just about the Gazette. Your father needs to acquire the other businesses so he can start building the new hotel and golf course. And the Gazette has been very vocal about it. The investors are eager, but they don’t want to be caught up in any controversial takedown. If we control the Gazette, things will be painless,” Craig said, exasperation evident in his voice. They’d been through this a dozen times.

“Painless? For them or us?” Edward said, not truly wanting to hear the answer.

“For both, I should say. They all get paid, and Cross-Fielding Group of Companies gets what it wants,” Craig said.

“My father gets what he wants, you mean,” Edward said.

“Is there any difference?” Julius interjected with a chuckle.

Edward sighed. No, there’s no difference. He thought wryly.

Richard Cross is Cross-Fielding Group of Companies. Whatever he wants, he gets.

After Clayton Cross, Richard’s father, retired due to health issues, Richard took over the Cross Group of Companies. But before stepping down, Clayton appointed Edward CEO of Cross-Fielding Media. And to ensure that Richard would not overturn his decision after his death, the old man made an iron-clad last will and testament. Even Richard’s cunning lawyers could not maneuver around it. Clayton had protected his ‘baby’ up until his dying breath.

“Edward, we need to wrap this up immediately. Our competitors are sniffing around the Gazette. If they snatch it up before we do, we’ll be in hot water. They will use the paper to influence the people into selling land to them and not to Cross Development,” Craig insisted.

“I haven’t seen the final proposal yet. I can’t approve what I haven’t read,” Edward said, digging his heels in.

“Julian, I thought you already sent it to his office,” Marlene, their CFO said, eyes narrowing at Edward’s cousin.

Julian rolled his eyes and said, “I have! Edward must’ve missed it. Or his EA might’ve misplaced it. Again. Old people tend to do that.”

“Connor is not that old, and he doesn’t misplace things. He’s more organized than you a hundred-fold over,” Edward said, defending his aging Executive Assistant. Connor used to be Clayton’s assistant. Edward had, in a sense, inherited him when he took office. The old man was as loyal to Edward as he was to Clayton Cross. And, like his grandfather, Edward valued loyalty more than anything in the world.

“Yeah, right. Okay, I’ll send you the files again. You can pretend to read them later,” Julian said, smirking.

Edward ignored the barb and shuffled the papers in front of him. He’s had enough of Evergreen Gazette for now. He was delaying the inevitable, but delay he would for as long as he could.

“Well, until then, this meeting is adjourned. You’ll know of my decision when I’m ready to give it,” Edward said, as he stood and stalked out the door.

There were murmurs of dissent from the board, Julian’s voice the loudest as he called out his name. But he didn’t even glance back. Edward walked down the deserted hallway with long, angry strides, shedding the boardroom like a slimy second skin. Only when he was inside the elevator did he let out a stifled breath and slumped against the cold, metallic wall. When the doors hissed open, Edward was out like a shot and found himself at a familiar, comforting place. The name plate simply read: J. A. Smith, Acquisitions.

Without preamble, he flung the door open and strode in. “Jonah, how many writers have we signed on since our last meeting?” Edward said as he took the seat in front of Jonah’s desk.

Jonah Smith, head of the Acquisitions Department of Legacy Press, Cross-Fielding Media’s publishing arm, looked up from the paper in front of him, squinting up at his surprise visitor. He leaned back in his chair and took off his glasses. A relic of the old times, he was the last editor Clayton promoted before retiring. The old man had admired Jonah’s sharp eye and impeccable work ethic. Nowadays, however, he was inches away from the chopping block. Only Edward’s stubbornness had kept him in place.

“We’re looking at five for now. Here’s a list of their books. We’re set to publish them by the end of the year,” Jonah said, pushing a thin folder to him.

Edward flipped it open and scanned the list with growing dismay. “And what’s their genre?” He already knew, just based on the titles, but he wanted to hear how Jonah would spin it.

“Spicy and supernatural romance mostly,” Jonah said, shifting uncomfortably. They already had a row about Jonah’s choice of books.

“In other words, smut,” Edward said, glaring at Jonah.

“Not smut, Edward, ‘spicy adult romance’. There’s a big difference between the two, or so they say,” Jonah said with a laugh. At Edward’s sharp look, Jonah conceded, “More like it, yeah. But those are the only ones the board would approve. They want books that sell and, right now, those are what the public is clamoring for.”

Edward grunted. He’d heard those words far too often for comfort. Everything’s about money now. “What about the two manuscripts I sent you? Those looked promising.”

“Stories like that don’t make much money anymore, Edward. The board thought they were too…clean…unsophisticated, too idealistic.”

“Why? Because they don’t have hairy creatures humping each other under the full moon? Or billionaire bosses seducing their extremely attractive but naive assistants?”

“Hey, Julian loved those, especially the ones with billionaire bosses, said he might get some ideas from them,” Jonah said with a wink.

“Of course he did. He’s as shallow as a beach at low tide,” Edward said under his breath.

And his father thought Julian would make a better CEO than he? Not surprising, if he thought about it. They were like two peas in a pod. Both cold and arrogantly privileged. Julian’s father, his late mother’s younger brother, Cliff, was nothing like his son. The siblings cared more about the right stories than the bottom line. Not if it compromised their principles.

Cross Communications started as a simple publishing house. Clayton worked his ass off to turn it into a media giant, acquiring a syndicated newspaper and a few local news channels. Then he met Aaron Fielding, owner of Fielding News. The two hit it off, both old guards of tradition and responsible media. The two companies merged and formed Cross-Fielding Media Corporation. When Aaron passed away, he left the company in the capable hands of his eldest child, Katherine Fielding, who soon fell in love with Richard, Clayton’s only son and heir. The two married a year later. In their second year of marriage, Katherine gave birth to Edward. Unfortunately, she and Cliff died in a tragic car accident when Edward was five.

With a sigh, Edward stood and made to leave. Then, he turned back to Jonah, remembering something. “Do you still have the manuscripts?”

“Yes, of course. Do you want them back?”

“Yeah, I’ll add them to my growing collection,” Edward said.

Jonah shook his head and smiled, “What are you going to do with them? Burn them at the stake?”

“Maybe. If they don’t meet my puritanical standards,” Edward said, reaching for two thick envelopes. “I'll return them if you want some 'clean' reading.”

“Don’t bother, I already have enough to tide me over,” Jonah said, pulling open a drawer full of bound manuscripts, the word “Rejected” stamped in bold, red ink on their covers.

Edward’s frown deepened. How many dreams did Cross-Fielding crush this time? He needed to find a way to give these stories a fighting chance, at least. Frank Herbert was rejected 23 times before he published Dune. J. K. Rowling received 12 rejection letters before Harry Potter saw the light of day. Even Stephen King’s mega-blockbuster ‘Carrie’ received 80 rejections. Edward hoped these budding artists would have the same fortitude. Otherwise, no one would ever read another book of the same caliber as those three produced.

Without another word, Edward pivoted on his heels and strode toward the elevators, the rejected manuscripts tucked under his arm, as if to protect them from the axman’s wrath. He thought of the Evergreen Gazette, of the discarded obras in Jonah’s drawer, of the ones in his arm, burning a hole through his suit. If he didn’t act now, the world would swallow him and his grandfather’s legacy into a bottomless hole.

When the elevator door slid open, Edward stepped into the lobby and practically ran to the revolving doors. Once outside, he took a deep breath, savoring the cold, bracing air. A plan was forming in his mind. He just didn’t know how or where to begin.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true. He knew where he could go to start a rebellion. He just hoped he could pull it off. Edward looked up at the skyscraper behind him. The Cross-Fielding Media tower loomed against the gray sky like a silent Titan. Imposing. Threatening. He felt like a bug going against a mammoth. Because what he was planning to do was akin to a death sentence. But if it was the only way to save Clayton Cross’ heritage, then he would go to the gallows with a pen and a grin. When the company limousine stopped in front of him, Edward got in without hesitation.

“Where to, boss?” Rick, his long-time chauffeur and trusted friend, asked.

“Grand Central Station.”

Rick raised a brow, but said nothing.

“You got it, boss.”

Edward looked out the window and gave Cross-Fielding a last glance, wondering if he would ever step foot in it again. A wave of sadness washed over him. It had been his reason for waking up for the past ten years. If he failed, he would lose it forever. But then his gaze shifted to the envelopes on his lap, and his resolve hardened.

No matter what it takes, Gramps. I won’t let you down.