Moonlight Millionaire

Chapter One - Anya's Assignment

The newsroom buzzed around me, voices blending into a cacophony of urgency and impatience. Deadlines loomed like dark clouds over everyone’s heads, and the weight of the next big story hung heavy in the air. I sat at my desk, typing furiously, trying to wrap up a piece about local politics that no one would probably read, when my editor, Peter, approached with that gleam in his eyes. It was the same gleam that meant my life was about to get a lot more complicated.

“Anya,” Peter barked, slapping a thick manila folder onto my desk. “You’re up.”

I blinked, confused. “What do you mean? I’m in the middle of—”

“Forget that,” he interrupted, waving his hand dismissively at my screen. “This is big. We need someone hungry, someone with the drive to get this story.”

I hesitated, glancing at the folder. “What is it?”

He crossed his arms, towering over me. “MB.”

I frowned. “MB? Who’s MB?”

Peter let out an exasperated sigh, running a hand through his graying hair. “You don’t know? The elusive billionaire? The one who owns half of New York but has barely shown his face in public? He hasn’t done an interview in years, and no one knows a damn thing about his personal life.”

I leaned back in my chair, the weight of the assignment settling over me. “Why me?”

“Because you’re good,” he said, a rare compliment from Peter. “And because I need someone who isn’t going to get star-struck. I need someone with guts. This is the kind of story that can make your career, Anya.”

I exhaled slowly, the excitement bubbling beneath my initial hesitation. I’d heard rumors about MB. The man was a mystery wrapped in luxury and power. People whispered about his influence, his reach, and his eccentricity. Some even said he was dangerous, though no one ever had any proof.

“You want me to write his profile?” I asked, opening the folder.

“Exactly,” Peter said, nodding. “I’ve managed to get you an in. His people agreed to a meeting. That’s more than anyone else has gotten in years.”

My eyes widened in disbelief. “He actually agreed to this?”

“He didn’t. His assistant did.” Peter smirked. “That’s the challenge. You’re going to have to get him to open up. Dig deep. Find out what makes the guy tick.”

This folder contains all the information we have about him, which isn’t much. A few business deals, some old photos from charity galas, but nothing personal. No family, no close friends, no lovers. He was like a ghost, drifting through the high society of New York without leaving any real trace.

“When do I leave?” I asked, already knowing I had no choice but to accept.

“Tonight,” Peter replied, his smile widening. “You’ll be staying at his estate upstate for the weekend. Try to get something—anything—that shows people the man behind the myth.”

I closed the folder and stood, my mind already racing. This was the opportunity of a lifetime, but I couldn’t shake the sense of unease creeping up my spine. There was something off about the whole thing—something that didn’t sit right.

“Upstate?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. “You mean, like… the middle of nowhere?”

“Exactly,” Peter said, his grin fading into seriousness. “No distractions. Just you and him. You’ve got this, Anya.”

• • • • • • • •

The car ride to MB’s mansion felt endless. The trees grew thicker, taller, and the paved roads gave way to gravel paths that crunched under the tires of the black town car. I peered out the window, watching as the city disappeared, replaced by vast stretches of forest and towering hills. The isolation was palpable, pressing down on me with every mile.

As we neared the estate, the air seemed to grow colder, sharper, and an unsettling quiet settled over the landscape. No streetlights, no signs of life—just trees, darkness, and the looming presence of the mansion in the distance.

When the car finally pulled up to the wrought-iron gates of MB’s estate, I couldn’t help but gasp. The mansion was enormous, sprawling across the land like a predator, its tall, black windows glinting ominously in the fading light. It was both beautiful and terrifying, a gothic masterpiece carved into the wilderness.

The gates creaked open slowly, and the driver said nothing as we rolled through. My heart pounded as the mansion came into full view, its stone walls rising high, casting long shadows across the driveway.

I stepped out of the car, clutching my bag tightly. The driver didn’t wait; he sped off the moment my feet hit the ground, leaving me alone at the entrance. The wind howled through the trees, sending a chill down my spine.

“Welcome, Miss Collins.”

I jumped at the sudden voice and turned to see a tall, well-dressed man standing at the door. He had a severe expression, his features sharp and his eyes cold.

“I’m Jonathan, Mr. MB’s assistant. He’s been expecting you.”

I swallowed hard, nodding as I followed him inside. The mansion was even more intimidating up close. The stone walls felt alive, like they were watching me. Every step I took echoed through the vast halls, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being pulled deeper into something I didn’t fully understand.

Jonathan led me through the dimly lit corridors until we reached a grand room with high ceilings and an enormous fireplace. The flames crackled loudly, casting flickering shadows across the walls.

“He’ll see you soon,” Jonathan said, leaving me alone without another word.

I stood there, unsure of what to do next. The room felt suffocating, the heat of the fire doing little to warm the cold fear gnawing at my gut.

And then, I felt it—a presence, powerful and commanding. My breath hitched as I turned toward the far corner of the room.

There he stood.

MB.

He was taller than I expected, his broad frame filling the room. His dark hair was tousled, and his sharp, angular face was illuminated by the firelight, casting deep shadows under his intense eyes. He didn’t smile, didn’t speak—just watched me with an unreadable expression.

“You’re Anya Collins,” he said, his voice low and smooth, sending shivers down my spine. “The journalist.”

I nodded, unable to tear my gaze away from him. There was something about the way he moved, the way he carried himself—it was animalistic, primal.

“Yes,” I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper.

He took a step closer, his eyes never leaving mine. “I don’t like journalists.”

I swallowed, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a knife. “I’m not here to pry. I just want to understand your story.”

MB chuckled, but it was a dark, humorless sound. “You think you can understand me?”

His words hung in the air like a challenge, and I felt my pulse quicken. There was more to him than just a reclusive billionaire. Something deeper. Something dangerous.

“I’m going to try,” I said, meeting his gaze, refusing to back down.

His eyes flashed with something—interest? Amusement? I couldn’t tell.