Claiming Cinderella: A Dirty Billionaire Fairy Tale

by Amy Brent

  She waited as he spoke and he noticed the tears flowing freely down her face.

  “I’m so emotional all the time.” She wailed, but she nodded at him nonetheless and he wrapped her up in his arms.

  “You make me a better person Lynne, you make me want to fix the past and focus on the future.” He whispered against her hair.

  “I love you Jessie, and I want to be with you too but there I one problem.” She gazed up into his handsome face.

  “What’s that?” He frowned.

  “I’m going to eat a lot of bread with this pregnancy.” She smiled and he laughed loudly before pressing his lips against hers once more.

  CARRYING HIS BABY

  “This story isn't right for me,” I told my editor, propping a hand on my hip. “I'm not a sports writer!”

  “This isn't a sports story,” Jim said. He sat behind his desk, looking rumpled, his tie half-undone and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “It's finance.”

  “The guy's a football player!” I threw up my hands, frustrated at being stuck with this crap assignment. I reported on the events taking place on Wall Street, on the financial heights and pitfalls that shook our very economy. I had no interest in interviewing some smug sports player who probably thought he was the best thing ever to grace the face of the earth. Sports players acted like they were gifted, as if God would take the time to make sure they scored the big points at the end of a playoff game and lead them to victory, instead of worrying about the pain and suffering going on in the world. I couldn't see the point of sports, and I didn't want to waste my time, or my column with The Dawson Post, with a story about some athlete I'd never even heard of before today.

  “He's also a billionaire,” Jim said. He picked up a page from the open file folder in front of him and skimmed the notes on it. “Not only is he one of the highest paid players out there, he's apparently also a genius when it comes to investing. Played football for Columbia University while studying financial economics. His bio says he was originally going to go into banking, but he was good enough at the game to get drafted. He makes millions per year now as a quarterback and he's invested a bunch of that in risky startup companies that became huge hits on Wall Street. And he just got traded, got a huge signing bonus, put the bonus into the market, and the payoff raised his net worth to over one billion.”

  He put down the paper and looked up at me. “I want you to interview him for the finance page. Find out his secrets. Ask him what tips he can offer our readers on investing strategies. That sort of thing.”

  I folded my arms under my generous breasts, frowning at Jim. “I don't need to ask him a bunch of fluff questions about winning the Superbowl?”

  “Jane, I told you,” Jim said, rising from behind his desk and walking around it to face me. “This isn't a sports story. Hal Masterson has been interviewed a thousand times over the course of his career by every sports page in the industry. But no one,” he shook a finger in my face, “has ever done a story on him for finance. It'll be a hit. Trust me on this one.”

  I sighed and lowered my arms to my sides. Jim had his heels dug in on this one, and it seemed like I didn't have much choice in the matter. Though at least, I figured, I could make an interesting story out of it, as long as Hal didn't spend the entire time talking about football.

  Jim handed me the folder and I left, heading down the hall to my office. I wasn't happy about being stuck with the Hal Masterson story, but I figured I might as well get it over with as soon as possible. Then I could get back to reporting the real financial news, writing stories about the changing shape of the American economy and making predictions about upcoming shifts in employment trends. The types of stories I'd studied and worked hard at for years to make a name for myself with this paper.

  I spent the next few hours in my office, doing research and making phone calls. I always believe in being thorough in my work, so I researched all the major news on Masterson, going back ten years to the day he was first draft pick out of college, on through his rise as a major sports star, and up to the more recent news about his financial windfalls. Jim had been right about one thing: there was really no financial news on Masterson. There were some reports listing him among the top ten highest paid athletes in the NFL, with a few mentions here and there about his investments and the money he'd made on Wall Street. But all the reports were written by sports page reporters, who focused on his skills at the game, and only mentioned his wealth as a side note.

  Once I had enough information to begin building a foundation for my story, I picked up the phone and called the PR office for Masterson's team. When someone answered I put on my most professional tone and said, “Hello, this is Jane Edison with The Dawson Post's Finance and Economics page. I'd like to set up an interview with one of your players, Hal Masterson.”

  “Did you say finance and economics?” the woman asked me. Her tone sounded like she was as doubtful about this story as I was.

  “That's right,” I said. “We'd like to do a profile on Mr. Masterson, in light of his recent financial success. Talk to him about his investment strategies, how he managed so much success, that sort of thing.”

  “Hold on a moment.” The woman set the phone down, though I could hear muted voices coming through the line, as if she were whispering with someone nearby. After a minute she picked up the phone again and said, “I'm sorry, Ms. Edison, but I'm afraid the finance pages aren't really the sort of publicity we're looking for.”

  “But—”

  “I'm sorry,” she said again, cutting me off. “Thank you for your interest. Have a nice day.”

  She hung up on me and I sat there, staring at my phone, a scowl forming on my lips. I didn't want to do this stupid story anyway, but I wasn't about to let this woman just dismiss me like that. I was going to find a way to talk to Masterson, no matter what it took.

  I thought about how to proceed. I had some colleagues who had done crazy things to get interviews with sports stars, from stalking them at their homes to sneaking into the locker room after a game, pretending to be a towel boy. That sort of thing wasn't quite my style, however. I needed to approach this from the same angle I was approaching my story: the finance angle.

  I smirked as the idea came to me. I looked through my notes until I found the name of one of the companies Masterson had invested in. He had a large number of shares in a company called Jonas General Merchandise Suppliers. GMS had started as a small, family-owned business before their smart online practices and their innovative marketing campaign, which blended social media, video advertising, and traditional marketing strategies, had launched them into a nationwide powerhouse. According to my research, Masterson had first invested in them because he had gone to school with one of the Jonas kids, who now, ten years later, sat on the executive board of their company. There was a connection that I could exploit in order to get my interview.

  I located a phone number for Jonas GMS and told their PR representative that I wanted to do a story on their company's rise from a family business to a major corporation. They were only too eager to agree. I jotted down all of the details in my notebook and made the arrangements, then thanked them and hung up the phone.

  I looked at the appointment notes and grinned. I'd be able to get a real financial story for my pages by interviewing someone from GMS, and at the same time I'd have the chance to milk them for a connection to Masterson. It was like getting two stories for the price of one.

  * * *

  My interview with Brett Jonas went smooth as can be. I got all kinds of information about their business, how they got started, and what they had done to grow into such a successful corporation. Masterson's investment had been a big part of their growth; he had dumped millions into the company with the money he'd made playing football, and they had used that money to expand the company and grow to new heights. It hadn't been tough to get Brett talking about Masterson and his role as an investor. Towards the end of the interview, I subtly slipped in the question th
at had been my real reason for coming here.

  “So I know Hal Masterson is a big football star and all, but you say he's still involved with the company?”

  “Yes,” Brett said. She was a pleasant woman, with long brown hair and a bit of baby fat still showing around her cheeks. “He's one of our primary shareholders. He doesn't get directly involved in things, of course. But he still has votes at shareholder meetings.”

  “Do you think he'd be interested in speaking with me?” I asked, trying to keep myself from smiling too much and giving away my little game. “What with his sports fame and all, a few quotes from him about your company could be a nice way to draw in more readers. Make sure the story gets the attention it deserves.”

  “Oh, that sounds like a great idea!” Brett said.

  We chatted a bit longer, and Brett promised to contact Masterson personally and ask him to do the interview. I gave her my card and she told me she'd give Hal my number.

  Now all I had to do was wait.

  A few days later, Hal called me. As soon as I answered the phone, I could tell this guy was too full of himself.

  “So,” he said after we made our greetings, “Brett tells me you'd like to do a story about me?”

  “Actually,” I said, “the story is about Jonas GMS. But I think your input would be invaluable, considering your history of involvement with the company.” That was a lie, of course. I needed the interview with Hal himself in order to satisfy my editor. But I figured it would be easier to get the information I needed if I played it cool and pretended that Hal wasn't my real goal.

  “Ahh,” he said. “Well, that's nice. Brett's a good friend. We were almost a little more than friends, if you know what I mean.”

  I rolled my eyes, glad he couldn't see the disgusted look on my face. He was probably the sort of man who always had women fawning all over him. He no doubt thought he was God's gift and that he could get any woman he wanted. Not that I expected him to be interested in a girl like me. He probably dated supermodels. I was a big girl, and while I was comfortable with my weight and confident that I could be both big and sexy at the same time, I knew that some superficial types of men couldn't see past a girl's waistline and realize what a catch she was. My ex certainly hadn't been able to.

  “Is this something we can do over the phone?” Hal asked.

  “Actually, I'd prefer to meet in person.” Meeting in person meant I could corner Hal into answering whatever questions I needed without him being able to simply hang up on me. And I wasn't planning on being nice in my interview or catering to his stardom.

  “Maybe we can do it over dinner?” he offered. “I know a quiet place where we can meet. Nice and private.”

  I rolled my eyes. Was this guy really trying to turn our interview into a date?

  “I'd prefer a more professional setting,” I told him.

  “All right,” he said. “We're playing in Philly next week. We can meet at the hotel, in one of the conference rooms. How's that sound?”

  “That sounds perfect.”

  We ironed out the details and arranged a time to meet. I'd have the next week to keep digging up whatever I could on Hal Masterson. If there had ever been any dirty dealings or insider trading going on in his past, I planned to find out about it. I doubted that a football player could have become a billionaire without breaking some kind of rules, and if there was any kind of scandal to be uncovered, it would make this story more worthwhile. I just had to do my homework and dig up whatever dirt I could find.

  * * *

  I arrived at the hotel bundled up in the heaviest coat I owned, a thick scarf wrapped around my face. The snow had started early that morning, and the roads were already slick by the time I pulled into the parking garage. I was hoping that the bridges wouldn't be closed before I finished with the interview. If they closed both the Ben Franklin and the Walt Whitman, I'd be stuck in the city overnight.

  I took the elevator up to the ground floor and spoke to someone behind the front desk. They sent me to the conference room Hal had reserved for us. It was big enough to hold a board meeting in, with a long wooden table surrounded by more than a dozen chairs. Far more than we needed for the interview, but it would do.

  Hal kept me waiting almost half an hour before he showed up. Apparently big football stars didn't have to worry about being on time. He strolled in like he had all the time in the world, hands in his pockets, a bit of a swagger to his step. He was wearing a silk shirt and pants that had probably cost more money than I made in a week. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing a few tribal tattoos on his arms. I'd never seen a billionaire with tattoos before. It made me wonder if Bill Gates had any.

  “Jane?” he asked, extending his hand. I shook it, noticing he had a very strong grip. That wasn't a surprise, considering what he did for a living. “Glad you could make it. Sorry to keep you waiting. If I'd known I had such a lovely lady waiting for me, I would have hurried down here sooner.”

  I ignored his flirting. I was here for business, not to get hit on. “Can we get started?” I asked. I sat at one end of the table, with my notebook in front of me and an audio recorder sitting between us. “This won't take long at all. I just want to get some details about your investments, what led you to your financial decisions, that sort of thing.”

  He sat down and propped his feet up on the table, crossing one ankle over the other. “Nobody ever asks me questions about money,” he said. “Usually reporters want to know what sort of thing was going through my mind when I threw the touchdown pass that won us the Superbowl last year.”

  “I'm not that sort of reporter.”

  “I can tell,” he said. He eyed me up and down, his gaze lingering on my large, firm breasts. “You're far sexier than the last reporter I talked to.”

  My face heated up, but I tried my best to ignore the feeling. “What can you tell me about your involvement with GMS?”

  “Eh, that's nothing too interesting,” he said, still running his eyes all over my body. I had generous curves, and his gaze was caressing every one of them. “I went to school with Brett. When I got my first signing bonus, I invested it in her family business. The better they did, the more money they made me.” He shrugged, acting like it was no big deal.

  “And your other investments?” I asked, consulting my notes. “You've made quite a few smart choices over the years, usually bringing in many times what you invested in a company? What's your secret? Insider tips?”

  He lowered his feet off the table and leaned towards me, a devious grin on his face. “You want to know my real secret?” he asked.

  I held my pen at the ready. “Yes?”

  He glanced over his shoulder, as if worried someone might walk in and overhear us. I licked my lips, waiting for him to reveal some kind of juicy dirt, something I could use to really put a twist on this story.

  He leaned closer and met my eyes. “I let the game decide.”

  I sat there, pen clutched between my fingers, and stared at him. “The game?”

  He grinned and nodded. “Depends what the score is. Like, say we play against the Eagles and the score is 21 to 14. I check my stock app,” he pulled out his smartphone and held it up, “then scroll down to number 35 on the list, and I invest in that.”

  I stared at him a moment longer. I set down my pen. “That...that's it?”

  He shrugged. “That's it. Oh, unless it's a tie, then I add the scores together and double it. For good luck, right?”

  I sighed. This story was turning out to be a bigger waste of time than I'd thought it would be. “Mr. Masterson, if you don't have any kind of investment advice to share with our readers...”

  “Listen, babe.” He got up and sat on the table right in front of me, one leg dangling over the edge. He leaned in close, close enough that I could smell his expensive cologne. It was a strong, exotic scent, mixed with his natural, manly musk. “Stocks are a gamble, right? Any of them could go up or down at any time. It's like going to the casino. You pick
a number on the roulette wheel, you hope to get lucky. The way you play smart is to hedge your bets, cover as many bases as you can, and wait until you hit big. I invest in dozens of companies every year. It's not completely random. The ones that do poorly, I pull out as soon as I see it was a bad investment. The ones that do well, I stick with as long as they're making me money. But there's so many stocks out there, and I could analyze them all day long and still end up with a crapshoot at the end of the day. So I have a little fun with it. And it works.”

  Hal wasn't giving me anything I could use. Not for a serious news story. I spent some time asking him some more questions about the firms he'd invested in, trying to dig deeper and find some big secret, something I could turn into a major twist. He brushed off most of my questions and gave me useless half-answers. He was friendly enough, sure, but at the end of the day he was better suited to be interviewed by a sports reporter, rather than by someone like me.

  Towards the end of the interview he flashed me a smile and asked, “Listen, babe, how about we quit with the business talk and go have a few drinks? My treat.”

  “I'm sorry, Mr. Masterson,” I said, gathering my notes. “I really should get going before the storm gets any worse.”

  He frowned, looking genuinely disappointed. “You sure I can't change your mind? No sense rushing out into the cold. Not when we can stay here, relax, get to know each other a bit. You seem like a real sweet girl. Not at all like the kind that usually hangs around me.”

  He scratched the back of his head and looked down at his feet. If I hadn't known better, I might have thought he was being bashful. Imagine that. A bashful billionaire.

  “What kind of girl usually hangs around you?” I asked as I stuffed my notebook and folders into my briefcase.