Trump Ally Promises CNN Overhaul If Paramount Succeeds in Warner Bros. Takeover
Billionaire tech magnate Larry Ellison and his son, David Ellison, are at the center of a political and corporate drama that could redefine American media—and the fate of CNN.
According to multiple sources familiar with the matter, the Ellisons have privately assured President Donald Trump that if their company, Paramount Global, succeeds in its $108 billion hostile takeover of Warner Bros. Discovery (WBD), they will impose sweeping reforms at CNN, the network Trump has long branded “fake news.”
The competing bid comes just days after Netflix reached a $72 billion agreement to acquire Warner’s film and HBO assets. Crucially, the Netflix proposal does not include CNN, which would be spun off into a separate company under its deal structure.
By contrast, Paramount’s offer explicitly includes CNN—and the Ellisons have made clear they intend to remake it from the ground up.
The Wall Street Journal reported that during private meetings in Washington, David Ellison told senior Trump officials that under Paramount ownership, CNN would undergo a “fundamental cultural and editorial overhaul.” His father, Oracle founder Larry Ellison, discussed firing prominent CNN anchors such as Erin Burnett and Brianna Keilar, two figures Trump has publicly criticized.
“The president wants new ownership of CNN and changes to CNN programming,” one White House official said. “He thinks the current leadership is openly hostile and believes a sale is long overdue.”
Both Ellisons have worked to cultivate Trump’s confidence as the Justice Department’s Antitrust Division—which reports to the president—will ultimately decide whether either deal is approved. The father-son duo were seen with Trump in the presidential box at the Kennedy Center Honors on Sunday, just 48 hours before Paramount’s counteroffer was announced.
According to The Guardian, Larry Ellison personally phoned the president after the Netflix-Warner announcement to argue that a Netflix acquisition “would hand Silicon Valley near-total control over streaming media” and stifle competition.
David Ellison has publicly described his vision for CNN and CBS News under a single, merged news division. In a CNBC interview, he said Paramount’s goal is to “build a scaled news service that is in the trust business, in the truth business, that speaks to the 70 percent of Americans in the middle.”
The Ellison plan would place the combined CNN–CBS News operation under the direction of Bari Weiss, the former New York Times columnist who recently took over as CBS News editor-in-chief and has rebranded the network as “anti-woke.” Her first major move was hiring Matt Gutman, formerly of ABC News, as CBS’s chief correspondent across CBS Mornings, CBS Evening News, and 48 Hours.
Recently, Gutman drew sharp criticism for remarks made while covering the fatal shooting of Charlie Kirk. During a live broadcast, he described text messages released between the alleged killer and his romantic partner as “very touching” and “intimate,” casting them in a sympathetic light despite the gravity of the crime.
Within 24 hours, Gutman issued an apology on social media, stating he “deeply regretted” that his words could be construed as insensitive, and asserting that he unequivocally condemns the assassination and the pain caused to Kirk’s family and supporters.
The Ellisons’ proposed acquisition would realign CNN with this alleged “post-woke” CBS ethos—one aimed squarely at restoring what David Ellison calls “viewer trust.”
Despite the outburst, aides say Trump remains open to the Paramount bid—particularly given that it includes CNN, unlike the Netflix plan. The president has privately told advisers he wants “real reform” at CNN and believes a Paramount acquisition could finally bring accountability to what he views as a hostile outlet.
At a White House roundtable Monday, Trump said, “I know the companies very well. I know what they’re doing. But I have to see what percentage of market they have. None of them are particularly great friends of mine. I want to do what’s right.”
The proposed megadeals have already triggered rare bipartisan alarm. Sen. Elizabeth Warren (D-MA) called both mergers “anti-monopoly nightmares,” while Rep. Darrell Issa (R-CA) warned that such consolidation “would shrink consumer choice and silence independent voices.”
A Wall Street Journal political newsletter summed up the moment succinctly: “Both Netflix and Paramount are acting like the fate of any multibillion-dollar deal runs through the Oval Office—because it does.”
My 15-year-old daughter had been suffering from nausea and severe stomach pain, but my husband brushed it off and said, “She’s faking it
My 15-year-old daughter had been suffering from nausea and severe stomach pain, but my husband brushed it off and said, “She’s faking it. Don’t waste your time or money.” I took her to the hospital behind his back. The doctor studied the scan, then lowered his voice and whispered, “There’s something inside her…” In that moment, all I could do was scream.
The first time my daughter doubled over in pain, my husband didn’t even look up from his laptop.
“She’s faking it,” Greg said flatly from the kitchen table. “She has a math test tomorrow. This is convenient.”
My fifteen-year-old daughter, Ava, was curled on the couch with both arms wrapped around her stomach, her face gray with pain and sweat dampening the hair at her temples. She had been complaining for three days—nausea, cramping, stabbing pain low in her abdomen, then vomiting, then pain again. Not dramatic crying. Not a performance. Just that awful, breathless silence people make when they hurt too badly to keep talking.
I knelt in front of her. “Ava, look at me. On a scale from one to ten?”
“Eight,” she whispered. Then, after a pause: “Maybe nine.”
I turned to Greg. “She’s going to the hospital.”
He gave a short, disgusted laugh. “And tell them what? That she has a stomachache? Claire, do you know what an ER visit costs? She wants attention. Stop feeding it.”
That was Greg’s talent—taking real suffering and speaking over it until it sounded expensive, inconvenient, or manipulative. He had done it to me for years with smaller things. Migraines. Exhaustion. Panic attacks. If he couldn’t control it, he minimized it. If it cost money, he mocked it. If it belonged to Ava, he called it teenage drama.
I should have stopped listening to him sooner.
That night, Ava woke me at 2:00 a.m. with tears streaming down her face and one hand pressed hard against her side.
“Mom,” she whispered, shaking, “I really can’t do this anymore.”
That was enough.
I got her into the car before sunrise.
I didn’t leave a note. I didn’t ask permission. I didn’t even wake Greg.
The drive to Mercy General felt endless. Ava spent half of it bent forward in the passenger seat with a blanket over her legs, breathing in short, fast bursts. Twice I almost turned around from pure habit—from hearing Greg’s voice in my head telling me I was being hysterical, wasteful, stupid.
Then Ava made a low sound in the back of her throat like her body was trying to fold in on itself.
I pressed harder on the gas.
At the hospital, they took one look at her and moved fast. Much faster than Greg ever would have expected. Bloodwork. Urine sample. IV fluids. Pain medication. Then imaging. The ER doctor, a woman named Dr. Shah with tired eyes and a steady voice, asked careful questions: any chance of pregnancy, drug use, fainting, fever, injury, recent procedures.
Ava answered weakly. No. No. No.
I sat beside her bed trying not to let her see how frightened I was becoming.
When the scan came back, Dr. Shah didn’t speak right away.
She studied the screen.
Then studied it again.
Then she looked at Ava, then at me, then quietly asked the nurse to step out and close the curtain.
Something inside me dropped.
The room felt suddenly smaller.
Dr. Shah lowered her voice and said, “There’s something inside her…”
For one second, my brain failed completely.
Then she turned the monitor toward me.
And all I could do was scream.
Because inside my daughter’s stomach—clear as day on the scan—was a tightly wrapped plastic capsule.
For a moment, the world stopped making sense.
I stared at the screen, trying to force the image into something familiar—something harmless. A cyst. A shadow. Anything.
But it wasn’t.
It was too defined. Too deliberate.
A small, oval shape. Smooth edges. Wrapped.
Placed.
“What… what is that?” I whispered, my voice breaking.
Dr. Shah didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, she asked gently, “Ava, sweetheart… has anyone given you something to swallow recently? A pill, maybe? Something unusual?”
Ava shook her head weakly, her face pale. “No… I don’t think so… I just feel sick…”
Her voice trailed off into a groan as another wave of pain hit.
I grabbed her hand, my own shaking now.
“This doesn’t make sense,” I said, louder this time. “How could something like that just be there?”
Dr. Shah met my eyes.
“It doesn’t just happen,” she said quietly. “Objects like this are either swallowed… or placed.”
The word hung in the air.
Placed.
My stomach turned.
Things moved very fast after that.
A surgical team was called. More scans confirmed it—there was a foreign object lodged in Ava’s stomach, and from the inflammation around it, it had been there long enough to start causing damage.
“She needs it removed,” Dr. Shah said. “Immediately.”
“Is she going to be okay?” I asked.
“We caught it in time,” she replied. “But we can’t wait.”
They wheeled Ava away before I could fully process what was happening.
One minute she was clutching my hand.
The next, she was gone behind double doors.
I was alone.
Alone with a plastic chair, a buzzing fluorescent light… and a thought that wouldn’t stop forming.
Placed.
My hands went cold.
I pulled out my phone and stared at Greg’s name.
For years, I had ignored the small things. The dismissals. The control. The way he decided what was “real” and what wasn’t.
But this…
This wasn’t something you could talk over.
When the surgeon finally came out, I stood up so fast the chair scraped loudly behind me.
“She’s okay,” he said first, and my knees nearly gave out.
“They removed it. No rupture, no internal bleeding. She’s going to recover.”
I covered my mouth, tears spilling instantly.
“Can I see her?”
“Soon,” he said. Then his expression shifted—professional, but serious. “There’s something else.”
My chest tightened again.
“We opened the capsule.”
I froze.
“And?”
He hesitated just long enough to make it worse.
“It wasn’t empty.”
The room tilted.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“There was a substance inside,” he said carefully. “We’ve sent it to the lab, but based on initial appearance… it may be a form of concentrated narcotic.”
I stared at him.
“No,” I said immediately. “No, that’s not possible. She’s fifteen. She doesn’t—she wouldn’t—”
“I’m not suggesting she did this willingly,” he said quickly. “But we need to consider all possibilities.”
My heart was pounding now, loud and uneven.
Someone had put that inside her.
Not an accident.
Not a mistake.
Someone.
When Ava woke up, she was groggy, confused… but no longer in pain.
“Mom?” she murmured.
“I’m here,” I said, gripping her hand.
She blinked slowly. “It doesn’t hurt anymore…”
“I know,” I whispered, brushing her hair back. “You’re safe now.”
She nodded faintly.
Then, after a long pause, she said something that made my blood run cold.
“Mom… that drink… at Dad’s office…”
I went still.
“What drink?”
“The night he made me come with him,” she said, her voice weak but steady. “He said I should learn how business works… I felt weird after… like really sleepy…”
Every muscle in my body locked.
“When was this?” I asked.
“A few days ago… before I got sick…”
It clicked.
All of it.
The timing.
The dismissal.
The refusal to take her seriously.
My hands started to shake again—but this time, it wasn’t fear.
It was something else.
Something sharper.
I didn’t call Greg.
I called the police.
They arrived quietly. Listened carefully. Took everything seriously in a way Greg never had.
The hospital handed over the capsule. The lab results came back within hours.
It was drugs.
High-value. Precisely packaged.
Smuggled.
And my daughter…
had been used as a carrier.
Greg was arrested two days later.
Not at home.
At his office.
The same place he had taken Ava.
The same place where she drank something that made her “sleepy.”
The same place where someone had decided a fifteen-year-old girl was a safe place to hide something illegal.
I saw him once after that.
Through glass.
He looked smaller.
Not powerful. Not confident.
Just… exposed.
“You’re blowing this out of proportion,” he said, even then. “You always do.”
I stared at him.
“No,” I replied quietly. “This time… I finally see it clearly.”
Ava recovered.
Slowly.
Physically first.
Then emotionally.
There were hard days. Questions. Fear. Anger.
But she was alive.
That was everything.
Sometimes I think about that moment in the ER.
The screen turning toward me.
The words: “There’s something inside her…”
I thought that was the worst thing I would ever hear.
I was wrong.
The worst thing…
was realizing it hadn’t been a mystery at all.
It had been betrayal.
Living in my house.
Sitting at my table.
Calling itself her father.
And the only reason my daughter survived…
was because, for once—
I didn’t listen to him.
