So what if I spent hours online getting the message out there? That’s how real change was made.
“Re-dedicating yourself to your values can be a really powerful way to earn trust,” Emily said thoughtfully. “I just went through a similar situation with Flawless.”
Daisy and Cameron both pinned me with a gaze that indicated their agreement.
I shifted, uneasy. My phone started buzzing away on the concrete—Jasmine calling.
“Take it,” Cameron said. “We’ll drink until you get back.”
“Plus we have to figure out what we’re going to do about the Wealthy Widows at our next HOA meeting,” Emily sighed, drumming her fingers on the concrete. In a bout of real madness, after we’d built Bluewater, all four of us also took on the responsibility of running neighborhood meetings every month that tended to drag on until midnight. They were made better with pre-gaming—although Daisy and Cameron had started publicly drinking from flasks as Emily and I tried to keep our neighbors in order.
“What’d they do this time?” The Widows occupied most of our condos and were known for their penchant for mischief and mayhem.
“We’ll tell you when you get back,” Cameron said. “But it involves rollerblades and Bellinis.”
I smiled, grateful for the brief reprieve of normalcy. “I want all of the details.” I picked up my phone with trembling fingers. “I love you guys,” I said, voice catching through the forced lightness. I kissed each one of them on the top of their heads before padding by and into my house.
“Moon,” Daisy said, “just remember. Whatever they say about you, it isn’t real, okay? We know who the real Luna da Rosa is.”
They were my best friends, the women I trusted the most on this big, beautiful planet. They really did know who I truly was.
But did I?
5
Luna
The next morning dawned golden and sunny outside my office—tendrils of Miami sun stroked through the windows and bathed Jasmine and Sylvia in a peach-hued light. I had a mug of green tea and was sitting cross-legged on my turquoise couch, pen in one hand and yellow legal pad balanced on my knee.
I’d struggled through my yoga practice that morning—found neither peace in my meditation nor wisdom curled in the flowering vines.
The corn-chip-and-organic-vodka hangover hadn’t helped either.
And all of this was worsened by the nonstop hatred spilling across my phone, my laptop, the television. Nasty comments on my social media accounts. An article with my picture in the middle: When Billionaires Lie.
Instead of cheerful optimism, I’d moved through my sun salutations and felt twitchy. Weird. Jumpy in the center of my stomach, like I was about to go over the apex of a rollercoaster. But not thrilling jumpy.
It was nerves.
Or maybe something else.
“Let’s do this,” I said brightly, clapping my hands together. “I’m ready to fix this mistake and move on, stronger than ever.”
Jasmine nodded, seemingly energized by a public relations situation she had described as “nuclear.”
Sylvia, meanwhile, wore an expression I couldn’t even begin to decode.
“I’ve got a two-pronged idea I think you’re going to love,” Jasmine said, tapping the TIME Magazine cover in my office. Luna da Rosa Believes Makeup Can Change the World. It was soothing, grounding. A shiny talisman that grabbed me by the heart and declared remember who you are.
My phone buzzed. Another article.
I stashed my phone away—attempted to focus on Jasmine. She’d been the director of Wild Heart’s public relations for the past four years, and I still struggled to get a true read on her.
“Activist. Vegan. Champion for corporate change,” Jasmine was saying. “This is your brand.”
“It’s also who I am,” I said.
Jasmine shrugged. “Sure, you can say that. But it’s your brand first.”
I sipped my tea. Felt twitchy again.
“The first prong is apologizing. I’ve seen this happen to leaders in your position before—leaders who are both CEO and spokesperson. People buy Wild Heart products because of you, Luna. They trust you. They want to be your friend. They believe if you met in real life you’d actually be their friend.”
“I would, actually,” I said.
Jasmine repeated: “Sure, you can say that.”
“Luna.” A knock at the door—Rebecca, my CFO, with a look on her face I recognized from the early days of running this company.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Stock prices for Wild Heart plummeted overnight after the news broke. We need to talk.”
“Put a meeting on my calendar.” How on earth had I gotten here? You’re going to lose it. The billionaire devil on my shoulder was the voice of every insecurity—now coming painfully true. I hadn’t expected it to develop, hadn’t expected a meteoric rise to fame and insanely lucrative success with Wild Heart to make me experience so much fear. Cameron, Emily and Daisy felt it too—this overwhelming fright that we’d wake one morning and find every penny gone. Every ounce of public goodwill. Every smart idea, innovative vision or strategic thought.
It paralyzed me more than I cared to admit.
“Also, the philanthropic numbers you wanted are right here.” Rebecca left a surprisingly thin folder on my desk. I placed a hand over it, seeking the same comfort as the TIME cover.
“Your brand equals trust,” Jasmine continued. “You lost that trust yesterday. Regardless of what we know to be true, there’s a narrative out there now that you manipulated people into buying Wild Heart’s false advertising.”
“Which is not true because the supplier we used before Ferris Mark had a perfect animal and human rights record,” I shot back. “Why would I suddenly drop my values six years ago if not for the fact that Ferris Mark lied to us?”
“To make more money,” Sylvia said simply—the first real words she’d spoken to me this morning. An echo of the email I’d trashed years ago from her: This will be your struggle as a future leader.
I was silent.
“People love when celebrities do charity work. It makes them appear real and, most importantly, more trust-worthy. We need to remind the public of who you really are from a brand perspective.”
It was a brilliant idea—drum up public support for Wild Heart. Fix my reputation. Help a nonprofit.
“I like it,” I said. “You know, I actually did volunteer with my parents as a kid.”
Sylvia nodded at me.
Jasmine charged ahead. “Right. So my idea is to rehabilitate your image through good deeds. Good deeds that we promote online.”
I perked up. “That would be really fun and beautiful, actually.” Jasmine was handing me a sheet of paper with a list of names. “Are these the organizations you’ve vetted?”
Sylvia drummed her fingernails on the table.
“They’re all fairly well-known with lots of community cache,” Jasmine said. “Active social media accounts so you should gain fans too. Sleek, shiny, well-loved. Respected.”
I was nodding along, eyes scanning the page. “Can we go see these today?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said. “Let me go talk to the team and we’ll start calling down the list.” She closed the door behind her, leaving Sylvia and me alone for a moment. My stomach roiled. I sensed a conversation coming I didn’t want to have.
“What does Wild Heart stand for as a company?” Sylvia asked.
“The intersection of corporate values and social justice,” I said automatically. “Proving that you can have a big business that doesn’t destroy the environment, violate human rights or test on animals.”
She gave me a small smile. “Perfect. With the exception of what’s happening right now, do you feel like your company still stands for those things?”
“Yes,” I said—and felt strong for the first time in twenty-four hours. “We pay every single one of our employees a livable wage. We prioritize diversity in hiring.
Vacation time, flex leave, parental leave—you and I wanted a company that valued our employees and didn’t chew them up and spit them out like every other corporation we saw at the time.”
“Perfect,” Sylvia repeated. “And I agree with your assessment. Now what do you stand for, Luna?”
I shifted in my seat, gripped my mug of tea more tightly. “Animals. Humans. The earth. Peace.” As the words left my mouth, that brief surge of strength slipped away.
She noticed. “Now what does your money stand for?”
“Wild Heart’s?” I asked. “Competitive salaries. Quality makeup. Attention to—”
“Not your company’s,” she corrected. “The billion or so dollars you have at your personal disposal. What does it stand for?”
The turquoise couch I was currently sitting on had cost $20,000—a paltry amount for what I currently made. The devil on my shoulder felt smug.
“My money stands for the causes that I care about,” I finally said, tapping the file that Rebecca left for me. I flipped it open to the first page, searching for quick corroboration. The top sentence read: Luna da Rosa, CEO—last personal charitable tax-deduction listed is from six years ago.
That couldn’t possibly be right.
“Luna?” Sylvia prodded.
“Yes?” I asked, shoving the folder aside for a moment.
“What is currently happening to you is all too ordinary, I’m afraid,” she said. “However, I happen to think that you aren’t even remotely ordinary. Which means you’re probably going to struggle more but you’ll never doubt who you truly are.”
My throat tightened. “I don’t doubt that.”
She came to sit next to me and handed me a sticky note that read Lucky Dog. “What’s this?”
“I actually like Jasmine’s idea,” she said, “so this is my consideration for the nonprofit you choose to dedicate your time to, publicly. I think you’ll find your values perfectly in line with theirs.”
I typed their name into Google, clicked on their website. Their site indicated that they were four years old, but the design harkened back to 1999. It was poorly made, cheap-looking, and not even remotely mobile-friendly. They had not a single social media account.
Ten years ago, this was the kind of grassroots nonprofit I would have done cartwheels over.
Now?
“I think…” I started, jumpy again, “I think Jasmine’s going to want to match me with a place that fits me better.”
“Fits your brand better, you mean,” she said.
I bit my lip. Started to braid my hair. “That’s not bad. That’s thinking strategically, Sylvia.”
“They work to rehabilitate dogs that are especially tough—candidates for euthanasia, fighting ring dogs, dogs found in hoarding situations or who have been abused.”
I scrolled down, interest piqued. There was a display of five photos of five different dogs, all in need of a home. And they were all, well, rough-looking, to say the least.
The day I got the idea for Wild Heart I’d been walking across my college campus, oblivious that my life was about to change. It had bolted through me, igniting a hot-pink glow over my heart, a swell of inspiration I couldn’t ignore.
I stared at those dogs.
My heart went glow.
Only for a moment. Nothing more.
At one point as a child, I must have been feeding fifteen different feral cats—and they were mean, ugly things, malnourished and yowling and wild. But my sweet, hippie parents had always ensured I understood that all beings deserved love. A huge tomcat I’d named Billy Joel lived outside our house in Coconut Grove for almost ten years—he was often limping, weepy-eyed, fresh from a fight. But I loved that mean old cat. The dogs this nonprofit worked with were reminiscent of those strays.
Sylvia regarded me closely as I clicked through the site. Jasmine would hate this place. And I was ashamed to admit that, even with that little glow, the strategic side of my brain—the side that seized opportunities and craved innovation—raised a very real warning flag. Because this might be my one real shot to fix my currently spiraling reputation. It’d be naïve to ignore that reality.
“Who’s Beck Mason?” I asked, clicking through their list of employees. No pictures or bios, only their email addresses.
“The director,” she said.
I shook my head. “No, I mean who is he. His name sounds familiar.”
Her smile turned mysterious. “Beck’s parents are infamous in the city of Miami. Do you know the Miami Devils Motorcycle Club?”
A tiny lightbulb went off—of course I did. Anyone who had lived in Miami in the last twenty-five years knew that club. They were outlaws who often fought with a rival club—the South Beach Warlocks—over territory. Street fights, gun violence, drug running, wild, insane parties the police had to break up—they could be seen all over Ocean Drive, riding in packs, wearing leather jackets with a screaming devil’s skull on the back.
“His parents run that motorcycle club. Most of the extended family is involved, I believe.”
There’d once been a two-month period when I was in high school when parts of Miami were on nightly curfew—too many turf wars between the Devils and the Warlocks.
“Absolutely not,” I said, shocked. “He comes from a violent crime family?”
“Beck Mason, however, is not even remotely involved,” she replied smoothly.
“Working with a nonprofit run by a man with such a storied past is not a smart idea, Sylvia,” I said, giving her a pleading look. I kept getting the sense that she was leading me by the hand toward the decision she wanted me to make. “It doesn’t matter whether he’s involved or not. The media will see a man with a violent, criminal background regardless of whether it’s true.”
She crossed her arms gracefully. “Does it matter?”
“Does what matter?”
She lifted one shoulder. “What he might have done in his past? If he’s on the right path now, will you let something arbitrary prevent you from doing truly amazing work for a nonprofit that needs help?”
Emotionally, I was cresting the top of that rollercoaster now—and what awaited me at the bottom wasn’t fun. I shut my eyes for a moment, battling it out in my head. The glow called to me.
Fixing my reputation called to me more.
“I don’t believe the kind of reputation this man has is arbitrary. And the list Jasmine gave me contains nonprofits that are no less worthy,” I countered.
“But is their need as dire?”
I gave her a ghost of a smile. This conversation was making me nostalgic for our early days. As a young leader, I often charged ahead without thinking things through. Sylvia would play this intellectual cat-and-mouse game until I landed on a more pragmatic decision. “I see what you’re saying. But I think it’s safer and smarter to stick to this list of vetted candidates that aren’t run by a man from an infamous crime family. Nothing could be further from my brand or my personal values than violence.”
I glanced at my watch, saw the time. Grabbed my bag of organic dog food from my lowest desk drawer.
“Back in ten minutes?” Sylvia asked. She knew my schedule.
I placed a hand on her shoulder. Squeezed. I wasn’t enjoying any of this—the icky, jumpy, guilty feelings.
Not being in alignment with the woman I’d modeled my entire career off of.
“We’ll be okay, right?” I asked her—and I didn’t mean only Wild Heart.
“Of course,” Sylvia said. “Extraordinary women generally make it through these things okay. But—” Sylvia cut herself off.
“But what?” I prompted.
Sylvia steeled her tone, pinned me with a steady gaze. “Extraordinary women generally make the choice that’s right and not always the choice that’s safe.”
6
Luna
Behind Wild Heart’s headquarters was a thin strip of pavement that faced white sand and a glittering blue-green ocean. I sank down, pushed my shoulder blades to the warm concr
ete of our building. Inhaled the scent of Miami Beach—a smell I associated with coconuts, sunscreen, saltwater and tequila.
I was ready for my five minutes of daily peace.
But she wasn’t here yet.
I flipped open the folder Rebecca had left, analyzing it with a critical eye. Although there wasn’t much to analyze—there was a clear trend of my philanthropic giving over the past ten years. And not an upward one.
A drop-off—a spike of giving the first couple years of Wild Heart’s existence. At that time, I was serious about developing a foundation arm of my company, a branch that would take Wild Heart profits and reinvest them into Miami’s nonprofits and charities. It seemed like the perfect addition to a company that valued social justice above all.
And then… nothing. For the past six years, I’d donated not a single cent. Not from my company. Not personally.
Six years ago I’d signed the contract with Fischer Home Goods and cemented my place as one of the youngest self-made billionaires in the country.
And I’d stopped being charitable.
I rubbed my fingers across my forehead. That gross feeling I’d had since this morning was spreading—from my stomach, up my throat, all the way to my toes. I wanted to jump in the air or curl into a ball. I hadn’t been lazy these past years—I’d been working my ass off to permanently change the beauty industry’s horrible animal testing policies. I worked twelve-, thirteen-hour days answering what felt like millions of emails, interviewing people, supervising my staff, conducting meetings, evaluating financials, strategizing with the marketing team, approving branding decisions, hiring people, firing people… the list never ended. And none of it had been anticipated when I founded Wild Heart. Being CEO felt like an endless learning curve, but there were aspects of my life that had… shifted.
I swallowed hard around the lump in my throat. Tapped my fingers on the thin folder—evidence of that shift.
WILD OPEN HEARTS: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy Page 3