The Billionaire Journalist Revenge

Elara’s POV

The first thing I hear is the slam of a door, the second is the crash of my suitcase tumbling down the narrow stairwell, and the third—most humiliating of all—is my landlord’s voice ringing through the hall like a siren.

“Rent or street, Miss Hale. And since you’re three weeks overdue, consider this eviction notice hand-delivered!”

My heart stutters, then races. I scramble down the steps, hair wild, breath short, but by the time I get there, it’s already done. My clothes, books, and laptop bag lie in an unceremonious heap on the cracked Chicago sidewalk, right beside a trash can tagged with graffiti.

A family of four passes by, the parents pull their kids away like I’m contagious.

Perfect. I'm officially homeless. Nothing like public humiliation to sharpen one’s sense of failure.

I crouch, shoving my things back into the suitcase, though the zipper has given up the fight. Each item I stuff inside reminds me of what’s gone wrong: a notebook full of abandoned article drafts, a frayed blazer from my brief stint as an “up-and-coming” journalist, and a press badge with the logo of The Chicago Ledger—revoked after my editor pulled me off a story.

Pulled me off, fired me, blacklisted me. Same difference.

And for what? For chasing a lead that pointed straight to Damian Cade—the billionaire everyone worships in business columns but whose empire was built on predatory contracts and political backroom deals.

I could’ve exposed him. I almost did. But the article was killed, a sack later was placed in my arms, with a warning whispered in my ear: “Walk away, Elara or prepare to be buried completely.”

Now here I am, walking away—straight into eviction.

I drag my suitcase down the block, ignoring the pitying looks of onlookers. It’s late afternoon, almost evening, and the wind bites sharp off Lake Michigan. I head for the only place that might give me cash before I freeze: Sullivan’s, the dive bar where I sling drinks and endure catcalls for minimum wage.

By the time I push through the sticky door, the neon sign humming like a bad conscience, I’m sweating under my coat. The air reeks of beer and fryer grease.

“Ellie!” My manager, Tom, looks up from the till, squinting at me like he can smell my desperation. Which, of course, he can. “You’re late for shift.”

“I’m not staying,” I shoot back, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Just here to pick up last week’s pay.”

Tom snorts. “If you can call it that.”

I lean against the bar as he pulls an envelope from the drawer. My stomach does an anxious flip, already calculating: two hundred bucks, maybe. Enough for a motel tonight and enough to buy myself a few more hours to figure out my life.

He hands it over. I tear it open and then freeze.

Fifty dollars. Fifty measly dollars.

“What the hell, Tom?” My voice cracks. “There’s supposed to be more.”

He shifts uncomfortably, wiping his hands on his apron. “A debt collector came by. Said he’s working for… what’s his name, Gallo?”

My blood runs cold. “You gave my paycheck to a loan shark?”

Tom shrugs, the picture of Midwest indifference. “The guy had papers. He said you owed and I can’t get in the middle of that.”

For a moment, I can’t breathe. I borrowed from Gallo once. Once after losing my job, thinking I could pay it back quickly. But his interest rates rise faster than Chicago rents.

Now, he's apparently eating my wages before I can even touch them.

I slam the envelope back onto the bar, pulse hammering in my ears. “Great. So I’m broke, homeless and nd stalked by vultures. Anything else?”

A voice answers from behind me, bright and brash.

“Yeah. You look like hell, babe.”

I spin around. And there she is—Maya, my best friend, occasional bad influence and full-time chaos gremlin. Her hair is a waterfall of curls dyed midnight blue, and her red lipstick could double as a warning sign.

She plops onto a stool, kicks off her boots, and grins at me like I’m tonight’s entertainment.

“Rough day?” she asks, mock-innocent.

“Do I need to repeat the words ‘evicted, broke, and hunted by Gallo’?”

“Ouch.” She whistles, tapping her nails against her beer. “Guess that means you’re finally ready for my idea.”

My stomach sinks. “If your idea involves armed robbery, I'll pass.”

She leans closer, her eyes glittering with mischief. “Not robbery. Opportunity.”

“That’s what robbers say.”

“Shut up and listen.” She slides a glossy flyer across the bar.

I glance down. The words PRIVATE EVENT leap out first, followed by the promise of cash. Five grand for one night.

The rest is a blur of fancy fonts and veiled instructions, but the picture says enough: velvet curtains, champagne flutes, a silhouette of a woman dancing and masks.

I blink. “Maya. This is a stripper gig.”

“Correction,” she purrs. “A fake stripper gig. You don’t actually have to take your clothes off if you don’t want to. Just… mingle, look pretty and pretend you belong.”

“And you expect me to do that? You must be kidding.”

“No. I think you'll do that because you’re desperate.”

I laugh harshly. “Desperate doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“Then say yes.”

I grip the flyer tighter, war in my chest. Every instinct screams no. I’ve spent years building credibility, chasing stories, fighting to be taken seriously as a journalist. Even now, with my career in ashes, the thought of parading around in sequins for rich men makes my pride shrivel.

But pride doesn’t keep you warm at night. Pride doesn’t buy back the wages Gallo just stole. And pride sure as hell doesn’t stop the image of my belongings rotting on a Chicago sidewalk.

I swallow hard. “Fine. Where’s the party?”

Maya smirks, like a cat who’s just caught a bird. “Penthouse suite, downtown. Tonight. It starts in…. Let me see, three hours. First you’ll need heels.”

“Three hours!” My pulse kicks. “This is insane.”

“Relax. It’s not like you’ll know anyone there.”

But when I glance back down at the flyer, my eyes snag on a name printed at the bottom. The host. The man behind the event.

Damian Cade.

My breath catches. The flyer slips from my hands.

Maya frowns. “What?”

I can’t answer. Not at first. My mind’s too busy flashing back to the last time I heard that name—the night my exposé was buried and my career strangled in its crib. That night, my warning came not as a threat but as a promise: Stay out of Cade’s business, or you won’t live to regret it.

And now… fate, irony, or whatever cruel joke the universe loves, is handin

g me Cade on a silver platter.

The same man who ruined me is throwing a party tonight.

And I have an invitation.