BENEATH THE CITY LIGHTS

The newsroom of The Metropolitan Journal was already in full chaos by the time Ella Rivera pushed open the glass doors. Phones rang nonstop, printers spat out fresh drafts, someone yelled for another pot of coffee, and keyboard clacks blended into the familiar hum she’d grown used to over the past two years. Ella slipped into her plain but well-loved desk chair near the windows. A half-finished article blinked impatiently on her screen — an interview with an elderly bakery owner who’d survived three generations of change. Warm, heartfelt, and absolutely the kind of story Ella adored. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the kind of story that earned promotions. She sighed, rubbing her tired eyes. Maybe today she’d finally get something more challenging. Maybe today her editor would stop handing her “fluff pieces,” as some of her coworkers quietly called them. But honestly? Even she knew she was stuck in a loop. She wanted a real chance. A breakthrough. Something that made her chest burn with purpose again. As if summoned by her wish — or cursed by it — the elevator dinged sharply, followed by heavy footsteps. Arthur Kingston, editor-in-chief and living thundercloud, paced across the newsroom, scanning the crowd like he was looking for someone to scold. Ella dropped her gaze. “Rivera!” She winced. Great. Picked on before coffee. She stood quickly. “Yes, sir?” “Conference room. Now.” Kingston spun around and marched off without slowing down. Naomi, her best friend at work, leaned over their shared partition. “He sounded like he found a typo in his soul.” Ella breathed out shakily. “I didn’t do anything wrong… I think.” “Babe, that man wakes up ready for war. Good luck.” Ella headed to the conference room, nerves buzzing. Inside, Kingston waited by the table, arms crossed, expression sharp enough to cut glass. “Sit.” She obeyed, folding her hands in her lap to keep them from fidgeting. Kingston dropped a thick folder in front of her. “I’ve got an assignment for you.” Ella blinked. “For me?” “For you,” he repeated, annoyed already. “A big one.” Her heart thudded. “How big?” “Exclusive-interview big.” Her breath hitched. “Who?” “Damian Westwood.” Everything inside her froze. The billionaire tech mogul. One of the most powerful men in the country. A notoriously private figure who avoided interviews like they were disease. “That… can’t be right,” she whispered. “He doesn’t talk to the press.” “He doesn’t,” Kingston said. “But apparently, he’s willing to talk to you.” She stared at him. “Me? Why me? I don’t cover business or finance. I write human-interest pieces and restaurant reviews.” “Exactly,” Kingston said, pacing a little. “Westwood Innovations reached out this morning and specifically asked for you.” Ella’s mind scrambled for a logical explanation, but came up empty. She didn’t know him. She’d never written about him. She wasn’t even sure she’d ever seen him in person outside of photos and headlines. “Sir, are you sure it wasn’t a mistake?” Kingston leveled her with a look that said he was two seconds away from throwing the folder at her head. “Does anything about billionaires scream mistake to you?” Fair point. He sighed. “Look, Rivera. I don’t know why he picked you. Maybe he wants a softer angle. Maybe someone recommended your work. Maybe he flipped a coin, I don’t know. But this is huge. You get this right, you’re not doing bakery pieces anymore.” Ella’s chest tightened with a mix of nerves and hope. “When is the interview?” she asked. “Today.” Her stomach dropped like a broken elevator. “Today?!” “He’s sending a car. One hour.” Ella stared at him, completely overwhelmed. “That’s… fast.” “It’s Westwood. He moves fast.” Kingston pointed at the folder. “Everything we know about him is in there. And Rivera?” “Yes?” “Don’t screw this up.” She forced a small smile. “I’ll do my best.” He pointed at her sternly. “Don’t do your best. Do it right.” And with that, he stormed out. --- Back at her desk, Naomi nearly tackled her. “Tell me everything. Did he fire you? demote you? Promote you to coffee-fetcher?” Ella dropped the folder dramatically. “I’m interviewing Damian Westwood.” Naomi’s jaw unhinged. “I’m sorry, does he know you’re a journalist or does he think you’re auditioning for a secret spy role?” “I don’t know. Kingston doesn’t know. I don’t know anything.” Naomi stared at her, stunned. “Girl, this is insane. This man is like… a myth. A really rich myth.” Ella grabbed her things and headed to the restroom to pull herself together. She tied her hair into a polished ponytail, touched up her lip gloss, and swapped her cozy sweater for a crisp gray blouse she kept in her locker for “emergencies.” She guessed billionaire interviews counted. She took a breath, looked in the mirror, and whispered, “You can do this. Just don’t die of nerves.” Back at her desk, her phone buzzed. Your car has arrived. Her heart jumped. Naomi squeezed her arm. “Go. And don’t forget us when you’re famous.” Ella rolled her eyes but hugged her tight. Then she grabbed her bag and headed downstairs. --- Outside, the morning sun glinted off a sleek black sedan parked at the curb. A uniformed driver stepped out and opened the back door. “Ms. Rivera?” “Yes,” she managed. “Please, come in.” The car smelled faintly of leather and expensive cologne. Ella sat nervously, watching the city blur past the window as the driver pulled into traffic. Her fingers curled tightly around her notebook. She wasn’t afraid of people — she’d interviewed all kinds of personalities — but Damian Westwood wasn’t just a person. He was a force. A presence. A man whose decisions shifted financial markets. A man wrapped in mystery, whispers, and power. Why me? The question echoed again and again. Twenty minutes later, the sedan turned a corner and stopped in front of a towering skyscraper — sleek black glass, sharp lines, and a giant silver W at the top. Westwood Tower. Ella stepped out, barely holding back a soft gasp. The building was intimidatingly gorgeous. Wealth and power practically radiated off it. Inside, the lobby was massive — marble floors gleaming like mirrors, gold accents catching the warm light, and a chandelier that probably cost more than her entire apartment building. The receptionist greeted her with a professional smile. “Ms. Rivera, welcome. Mr. Westwood is expecting you.” Hearing those words felt unreal. She was guided to a private elevator, which whooshed upward faster than her stomach could prepare for. 70th floor: Executive Level. The doors opened to a quieter, calmer hallway. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a jaw-dropping view of the city. A woman in a black suit approached smoothly. “Ms. Rivera? I’m Claire, Mr. Westwood’s assistant. Please follow me.” Ella nodded and followed, her nerves buzzing like static electricity. Claire stopped at two dark glass doors and opened them silently. Inside was a massive office — modern, minimalist, but warm. Soft lighting. Rich textures. And windows showcasing the entire city below like a living mural. But all of that faded when Ella spotted the man standing by the window. Damian Westwood. Even from behind, he looked… intense. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a charcoal suit that was too perfect to be off-the-rack. His posture radiated authority. “Mr. Westwood,” Claire announced softly, “Ms. Rivera is here.” He turned. Ella’s breath hitched. He was striking in that quiet, devastating way some men were born with. Dark, slightly wavy hair. Strong jaw. Eyes a deep shade of gray that seemed to study her in a single glance. He walked toward her, steps measured, expression unreadable. And then he extended his hand. “Ms. Rivera,” he said, voice smooth but cool. “Welcome.” Ella placed her hand in his, shocked by the warmth in his touch. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I know how rare this is.” Something flickered in his eyes — amusement, maybe. “Rare, yes.” He released her hand slowly and gestured toward a seating area with two sleek leather chairs. “Please, have a seat.” She sat carefully, reminding herself to breathe. Damian settled into the chair opposite her with the kind of quiet confidence only money and power could build. “You’re wondering why I requested you,” he said. Ella swallowed. “A little, yes.” His gaze held hers, steady and unreadable. “I’ve read your work.” She blinked, stunned. “I appreciate journalists who see people,” Damian continued calmly. “Not just headlines. Not just angles.” Ella wasn’t sure what to say. No billionaire — especially not this billionaire — should know her small articles existed. “I thought you might be the right person,” he added softly, “for what I’m ready to share.” Her heart skipped. There was something in his tone — something controlled but meaningful — something that made her feel like this wasn’t just another interview. “Shall we begin?” he asked. Ella nodded, pulling out her recorder and notebook with fingers that felt a little too warm. But before she could ask her first question, Damian said quietly: “Understand something, Ms. Rivera…” She looked up. “This interview,” he murmured, eyes locked on hers, “…will not be like any you’ve done before.” A shiver ran through her. She didn’t know what he meant. But she knew one thing: Whatever was starting here would change everything.