that last story you did. This is better!”
“What? But I was up all night finishing it,” I protest, sinking down into the chair opposite him. I’d stayed up until three a.m. editing the final draft of my feature article on the torture camps in the Middle East.
Surely he’s not suggesting I get rid of it completely?
“Tough. I want a different angle now,” he huffs. “Besides, there’s something big in it for you. And by big, I mean dollar signs, baby!”
Oh man, here we go.
Hank has that gleam in his eye, the one he gets when he’s on the verge of catching a big fish. I hate it when he calls me ‘ baby’ too, like I’m a fine piece of meat that he’s been admiring.
I’m twenty-six years old!
“Hank, I told you to stop calling me that,” I say sternly, narrowing my eyes on him. “It’s not appropri—”
“Oh cool your jets!” he interrupts, refusing to look me in the eye. “Why do you have to be so uptight all the time? Good thing you’re one of my best writers, Claire.” He stops to take a breath, shuffling some papers in front of him. “Anyway, back to the issue at hand. I need you to interview Jackson Windsor.”
He states it matter-of-factly, like it’s not even up for discussion.
“Wait, hold up. You want me to interview him?” I ask, screwing my face up at him like he’s just made some crude joke.
“Well, unless you know of anyone else worth interviewing…of course I want you to interview him!”
“But he’s a famous recluse. He has disappeared off the face of the earth,” I laugh. “No one gets to interview him. In fact, no one’s heard anything about him for like twelve months.”
Hank grins at me keenly. “Exactly. Hence why this is our cash cow, baby!”
“Hank…”
“Alright, alright. I’ll curb my tongue on the baby thing. But I’m serious about this, Claire. You have top spot on this one!”
I shake my head at him, still utterly confused.
And to think the only agenda I had in mind for today was calling Hank out on being a sexist pig.
How the hell has he even managed to score this interview?
Jackson Windsor is as untraceable as a ghost, and he doesn’t even live in the States.
He lives in some remote part of Canada, hibernating in a lavish log-cabin styled mansion on a stretch of its wild and rugged coastline.
Anyone with a keen interest in celebrities and world news knows the story...
Jackson Windsor became an orphan at fifteen when his famous and rich geologist parents died in a plane crash whilst celebrating their 20 th wedding anniversary in the Bahamas. From their estate he inherited a decent fortune, and under the care of his late grandmother, Maggie Windsor, he went on to finish high school. Inspired by his parents work, Windsor decided to point his career in a similar direction and completed an earth and environmental engineering degree at Columbia University. After five years of working as the head of operations for a large mining company, he decided to go one step further, investing two billion dollars into South African and Zimbabwe mines. However, on his thirtieth birthday, after having only owned the mines for a year, he suddenly announced that he was closing them down for good, but refused to give any reason as to why. Since that day twelve months ago he has avoided all press and people like the plague.
It’s one of those cold cased intriguing stories that every journalist wants the scoop on but has never been able to catch.
And that’s what I’m apprehensive about.
Even if I do the interview with Jackson Windsor I doubt he’s going to come through with the goods—notably the garish details behind why he closed his mines.
There are whispers that he did it to try and quell the marketing of blood diamonds in the region, but having done extensive research on it, and Windsor himself, I know there’s more to it than just that.
I think something even more sinister took place.
“So when is this all-exclusive interview supposed to
“What? But I was up all night finishing it,” I protest, sinking down into the chair opposite him. I’d stayed up until three a.m. editing the final draft of my feature article on the torture camps in the Middle East.
Surely he’s not suggesting I get rid of it completely?
“Tough. I want a different angle now,” he huffs. “Besides, there’s something big in it for you. And by big, I mean dollar signs, baby!”
Oh man, here we go.
Hank has that gleam in his eye, the one he gets when he’s on the verge of catching a big fish. I hate it when he calls me ‘ baby’ too, like I’m a fine piece of meat that he’s been admiring.
I’m twenty-six years old!
“Hank, I told you to stop calling me that,” I say sternly, narrowing my eyes on him. “It’s not appropri—”
“Oh cool your jets!” he interrupts, refusing to look me in the eye. “Why do you have to be so uptight all the time? Good thing you’re one of my best writers, Claire.” He stops to take a breath, shuffling some papers in front of him. “Anyway, back to the issue at hand. I need you to interview Jackson Windsor.”
He states it matter-of-factly, like it’s not even up for discussion.
“Wait, hold up. You want me to interview him?” I ask, screwing my face up at him like he’s just made some crude joke.
“Well, unless you know of anyone else worth interviewing…of course I want you to interview him!”
“But he’s a famous recluse. He has disappeared off the face of the earth,” I laugh. “No one gets to interview him. In fact, no one’s heard anything about him for like twelve months.”
Hank grins at me keenly. “Exactly. Hence why this is our cash cow, baby!”
“Hank…”
“Alright, alright. I’ll curb my tongue on the baby thing. But I’m serious about this, Claire. You have top spot on this one!”
I shake my head at him, still utterly confused.
And to think the only agenda I had in mind for today was calling Hank out on being a sexist pig.
How the hell has he even managed to score this interview?
Jackson Windsor is as untraceable as a ghost, and he doesn’t even live in the States.
He lives in some remote part of Canada, hibernating in a lavish log-cabin styled mansion on a stretch of its wild and rugged coastline.
Anyone with a keen interest in celebrities and world news knows the story...
Jackson Windsor became an orphan at fifteen when his famous and rich geologist parents died in a plane crash whilst celebrating their 20 th wedding anniversary in the Bahamas. From their estate he inherited a decent fortune, and under the care of his late grandmother, Maggie Windsor, he went on to finish high school. Inspired by his parents work, Windsor decided to point his career in a similar direction and completed an earth and environmental engineering degree at Columbia University. After five years of working as the head of operations for a large mining company, he decided to go one step further, investing two billion dollars into South African and Zimbabwe mines. However, on his thirtieth birthday, after having only owned the mines for a year, he suddenly announced that he was closing them down for good, but refused to give any reason as to why. Since that day twelve months ago he has avoided all press and people like the plague.
It’s one of those cold cased intriguing stories that every journalist wants the scoop on but has never been able to catch.
And that’s what I’m apprehensive about.
Even if I do the interview with Jackson Windsor I doubt he’s going to come through with the goods—notably the garish details behind why he closed his mines.
There are whispers that he did it to try and quell the marketing of blood diamonds in the region, but having done extensive research on it, and Windsor himself, I know there’s more to it than just that.
I think something even more sinister took place.
“So when is this all-exclusive interview supposed to
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