Her heartless billionaire

a mysterious man.

[6th December 2025,

10:20 a.m.

PRIME VIEW Media Company HQ

New York City, USA]

Silent conversations formed the ambient soundtrack of my life. As Sarah Winston, the only child of a man whose name still carried immense weight in the hushed, powerful circles of Los Angeles, no one would have ever imagined me here. They would have pictured me managing a charitable foundation, attending galas, or perhaps gracing the pages of a society magazine. Not working as a reporter in the bustling, beautiful, and utterly anonymous heart of New York City.

For me, the decision had been simple. It was the only one I could have ever made. Leaving my father and the gilded cage of my life in L.A. to pursue my own dream had always been the plan. The day after I graduated from college, I packed two bags, booked a one-way flight, and never looked back. I’d fought for this job at PRIME VIEW, earning my place not with my family name—which I had deliberately omitted from my resume—but with my tenacity during a grueling series of interviews. And so far, I loved every exhausting, exhilarating second of it.

I had already written dozens of reports. I’d even co-hosted a few painfully early morning shows, learning to smile through the haze of a three-a.m. alarm. The one thing I hadn't done, the one thing I craved more than a decent night's sleep, was a real assignment. An interview with a public figure, a name that mattered, a story that could make a genuine splash.

Today, such an opportunity was on the table, a tantalizing prize waiting to be claimed. And I was going to get it. All I had to do was convince the Director. Standing outside the glass door of her office, I took a series of deep, steadying breaths, the familiar scent of industrial-strength coffee and old paper filling my lungs. The Director, Emma, was a formidable woman—strict, demanding, and with an eye for detail that could spot a misplaced comma from fifty paces. With everyone else, she was an iron-fisted ruler. But with me, from day one, there had been a strange, unspoken camaraderie, a friendship that defied the corporate hierarchy. I knew I could do this. It was a core part of my being, a stubborn, unyielding drive to chase the things I truly wanted. And right now, more than anything, I wanted this interview.

I knocked lightly, the sound sharp in the relative quiet of the executive hallway.

“Come in,” her voice, crisp and clear, called from within.

That was the easy part. I pushed the door open and stepped inside. Her office was an oasis of calm, a minimalist space of sleek black furniture and polished chrome, with a single, breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline. She was typing away on her laptop, her focus absolute. As I sat in the plush leather chair opposite her desk, a dozen different ways to phrase my request tumbled through my mind. I discarded them all. Direct was always better.

“Good morning, Director Emma,” I began, my voice steadier than I felt. “I would like to make a request concerning a new assignment.”

She didn't look up, but I saw her fingers pause for a fraction of a second on the keyboard. As expected, her expression was a perfect, unreadable mask. So, I kept going.

“The party this evening,” I said, ensuring my tone was confident, unwavering. “The interview with the main guest. I want it.”

Her typing stopped. She looked up, her sharp, intelligent eyes meeting mine. And in that moment, I saw it. A flicker of something in her expression that looked undeniably like relief. But that was impossible. Why would she be relieved? Dozens of more experienced reporters at PRIME VIEW would have jumped at this chance, would have been begging her for it all morning. The Director slowly closed her laptop, the soft click echoing in the quiet room.

“Sarah,” she said, her voice low and serious, all traces of our usual friendliness gone. “You want the interview with the main guest at the party tonight? Are you absolutely sure about this? I need you to be sure. Because once I give this to you, there’s no backing out. No walking away.”

I didn't hesitate. I had heard the whispers around the office. The person of interest was some mysterious, mega-wealthy billionaire, a new name on the list of the world's richest under thirty. This wasn't just an assignment; it was a potential career-maker. A story that, if I handled it right, could catapult me from a rookie reporter to a name in the industry. I gave her the only logical reply.

“Yes,” I said, my chin rising in that unconsciously defiant way it always did when my mind was made up. “I want this assignment. I can assure you, I won’t be backing down.”

A slow smile spread across her face. “Good,” she said, the relief in her eyes now undeniable. “Then the assignment is yours. The company’s limo will pick you up from your apartment at nine p.m. It will take you to the venue, the GRANDEUR club. I trust you have something decent to wear.” She extended her hand across the table. Her handshake was firm, her smile genuine.

“Thank you so much,” I said, practically beaming. “I will do my very best.” I made a move to leave the lush chair, my mind already racing with a hundred different things, when she motioned for me to remain seated.

“Before you go,” she said, her expression turning serious again, “you need the briefing on the man you’re supposed to interview. I’m doing this one myself. Right here, right now. Because, frankly, there isn't much to say.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial whisper, as if she didn't want the walls themselves to hear. The mystery deepened, and my excitement ratcheted up another notch. “His name is Max Malevolo. Have you heard of him?”

“The name, yes,” I replied honestly. “I know he’s incredibly wealthy, but I also know that his source of wealth isn't common knowledge. That’s about it.”

“Max Malevolo,” she began, ticking off the points on her fingers, “is an Italian-American businessman, believed to be in his mid-twenties. He is the CEO of Malevolo Conglomerates, one of the world's largest and most opaque private corporations. He is, without a doubt, the most secretive billionaire on the planet. That, my dear, is why no one else was clamoring for this job. They knew it was a fool's errand.” She paused, letting the weight of her words sink in.

“The man hasn't had a verifiable, new photograph of himself published anywhere since he was twenty years old and dating the Princess of Spain. His conglomerate is technically legal, a labyrinth of corporations that individually generate billions of dollars annually, but no one in the press has any idea how he built it, or what most of those corporations actually do. We’ve heard rumors he plans to expand his empire into America, but we have no idea how or when. We have no current information about his love life, nothing concrete about his past, and nothing verified about his family. No reporter has successfully interviewed him in five years. Do you understand now? This could be the hardest assignment of your career, or it could be a complete waste of your time. Do you still want it?”

She watched me closely, searching for any sign of hesitation. I inherited many things from my father; hesitation was not one of them.

“Director Emma, if I get this interview,” I said, a smile playing on my lips, “it will dominate the global media cycle for months and elevate this company's profile to a new level. If I don’t, I get to enjoy a party at one of the most exclusive clubs in New York. I see this as a win-win situation.”

She sighed, a sound of reluctant admiration. “There’s something else. Rumors. They circulate in our circles, whispers you won't find on any blog. I think you should know them. He is… good with women. Exceptionally good. He was rumored to have been involved with French supermodel Monica Lejeune, Swiss actress Sophia Dell, and America’s own TV sweetheart Michelle Kay. All within a three-week period the last time he was in New York. Some call him a playboy. Others, a serial womanizer.”

At this point, I was more intrigued than intimidated. The man sounded like a character from a romance novel, a dark and brooding mystery. But then, she added one more detail, a final rumor that painted a much darker shade onto the portrait of this billionaire enigma.

“There’s one more thing,” she said, her voice barely a whisper now. “He is rumored to have… eliminated his competition. In less than legal ways. Companies that competed against his have mysteriously folded. The last media company that published a story he didn't like was bought out and gutted within a month. They say the last journalist who got close to him… he vanished. Disappeared a month after their supposed interview and has never been seen since. Max Malevolo has verified connections to the Italian Mafia. These rumors can’t be proven, but they are not unbelievable.” She took a deep breath. “His closest friends, all billionaires themselves, refuse to speak about him. There’s a reason he’s nicknamed ‘the Heartless Billionaire’.”

She let the silence hang in the air for a moment. “We have to take this risk, Sarah. The opportunity is too great. But I need you to be careful. Incredibly careful. If by some miracle you get to speak with him, you ask only polite, superficial questions. You do not mention the rumors. You do not do anything to upset him. If you don’t meet him, you enjoy the party, and you write a lifestyle piece about the event. Understood?”

I gave a firm, affirmative nod.

“Good,” she said, her professional mask back in place. “You can leave now. My secretary will forward you the limited background file we have. Good luck, my dear.”

As I left her office, my mind was reeling, replaying her words. ‘The Heartless Billionaire’. The name echoed in my thoughts. I was no longer just excited; I was intensely, dangerously intrigued. The fear was a small, cold knot in my stomach, but it was overshadowed by a thrilling curiosity about this mysterious, daring, and perhaps deadly man.

My first thought was practical: I needed to get my credit card and find the perfect dress. I had a few hours to shop and get my hair done. The chances of actually meeting the infamous Mr. Max Malevolo were, I knew, next to zero. But if I did, if I was the one to finally interview the great mystery, I needed to look my best.

On the taxi ride back to my apartment, I couldn't help myself. I pulled out my phone and searched his name. Just as the Director had said, the most recent pictures were years old, showing a devastatingly handsome young man with dark, intense eyes, holding hands with the Princess of Spain. At least one of the rumors was true. I found myself smiling as I stared at the photo, wondering which of the others might be true as well.

A part of me was now terrified but a much larger, more reckless part was actively hoping. The face of Mr. Max Malevolo, the handsome, heartless billionaire with connections to the mafia, had already taken up residence in my head.