Wild Open Hearts (Bluewater Billionaires) - Kathryn Nolan Page 0,10
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 concrete 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.
I opened my Instagram account—home to twelve million followers and an abundance of snide comments and messages. With an iron will, I ignored the red notifications and scrolled through the long panel of images. Yoga, meditation, ocean pics, pretty scenes with my best friends.
Wild Heart products, always.
Sponsored products, often.
I was looking for mentions of service or volunteering, highlighted charities or nonprofits that had captured my attention. A sense of selflessness mixed in with my brand.
I scrolled. And scrolled. Even the updates I used to enjoy posting about veganism or animal rights seemed fewer and far between—and only in relation to a product.
The shift, it appeared, had been happening for longer than I’d realized.
And then there were clicks on the pavement, movement, and everything sharp and chaotic in my mind muted to a gentle calm.
Penelope was here. My five minutes of daily peace.
She wasn’t the prettiest dog in the world; her tan fur was matted, mangy. She had bites and scratches on her skin. She weighed about thirty pounds—but probably should have weighed forty-five. Penelope was a beach mutt, a dime a dozen on South Beach, and yet she’d chosen Wild Heart as the place where she slept every night.