“Chances are you’ll live,” I said in English, still typing on my laptop. Unfortunately.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” he barked.
I did.
I could tell my compliance startled him, because the great Mathias Laurent cleared his throat, walked over to the seat in front of mine, and collapsed into it like he’d been holding his breath for the past year. Which was pretty much what we’d all done since Camille died.
“We’re having an identity problem that causes ad space to tank.” He slapped the chrome desk between us.
“Let’s agree to disagree. I know exactly who I am: a newsman who’s grossed the highest network ratings every night for the past two years and the son of a philandering idiot. If you suffer from memory loss, I’d suggest ginkgo biloba, B-12 vitamins, and fatty acids.” I kept my eyes on the screen.
“Listen, son…”
He crossed his legs, and I did my best not to laugh. Really? Son? That was rich.
“Your work here is appreciated, but it’s time to play nice with new advertisers and harvest fresh revenues.”
“You mean now it’s time to let parties’ propaganda and every dick with an alcohol bottle or cigarette brand sell have air time?” I sat back and laced my fingers together. “Because we already have commercials coming out of our asses. We just don’t run the spots that bring in the big bucks, because people tend to lose their trust in a news channel who tells them they should buy a pack of condoms and lubricants to go with their booze.”
He rolled his eyes like a teenager. “Il n’est pire sourd que celui qui ne veut pas entendre!” No one is as deaf as the one who refuses to listen. “Perhaps a few simple endorsements on air will do. I’m meeting you halfway here, Célian.”
“I’d rather meet you in court when I sue your ass for shitting over my soon-to-be network.” I stopped him mid-speech. “This news channel will report the news. Nothing more. Nothing less. It is the sales department’s job to find lucrative deals.”
“Précisément. They simply can’t. You’ve made this network the goodie two-shoes of TV. We’re never biased, never wrong, and never profitable. And that’s an issue.”
“Don’t give me the profitable bullshit. I watch the numbers closely. I’m about to inherit this place.” We were making clean profits, just not major revenues like we could if we sold our soul to the devil. I preferred my soul intact. It was bad enough I didn’t have a heart.
“Continue this line of behavior, and you will inherit nothing.” My father reddened, his face swollen with blood and anger.
I smiled impatiently. “It’s not up to you, and you know it. My mother gave you the keys to this ride, and you shall return them when you’re no longer fit for the job. The difference between us is that I am a newsman, and you are a lucky bastard.”
“Watch your tone with me.” He punched his thigh, his face so red it was starting to look purple.
I knew I should back down before he suffered another heart attack. I hated my father with a fiery passion, but I didn’t want his death on my conscience. I knotted my fingers together, leaning forward and meeting his gaze. Nature must’ve known what I’d found out when I wasn’t even ten—we weren’t going to be close. I’m certain that’s why I looked so much like my mother. Light eyes, dark hair. Only things I’d inherited from Mathias were his height and ability to make people want to commit murder.
“I pride myself in bringing to the table impartial, factual, bulletproof information. In having a proven track record of clean kills every night. What our viewers do with this information is up to them. You will not inject any pro-Republican, pro-Democrat, or pro-bullshit propaganda into my news show. You will not air ads for casinos, alcohol, or condoms. You will not ruin this business for me.”
“We need to stay profitable, Célian.” My father adjusted his silky red tie. “And when it comes to thinking for yourself, at least have the decency to sound a little less adamant. Your track record hasn’t exactly proven that you do as you preach.”
I knew exactly what he was referring to, and I wanted to staple his face to my goddamn door for the hypocrisy. He’d dug the hole I was sitting in with his own dick, and now he was shoveling mud to bury me inside of it.
“If you don’t want me to touch your show, I will have to cut back on your staff. I will make the necessary arrangements to let go of the interns and stand-by reporters.”
Fucker. But it beat drowning in ads for casinos and experimental drugs.
“You do what you have to do,” I hissed. “Any more words of wisdom from a man who doesn’t know where our studio actually is?”