the comment. A local Miami businessman: a cheesy, smarmy-looking asshole. I knew his company—knew he paid terribly, treated his employees like shit, and didn’t care about the horrible working conditions of the factories he used to produce his office supplies.
The most infuriating part of this entire Ferris Mark debacle was that my own personal mistakes were affecting the change I thought Wild Heart was bringing to the business community. Fair wages. Diverse hiring. Valuing the impact our production had on the earth.
Instead, I worried I was only making things worse. My TED Talk was now filled with vile comments. Half from avid animal-rights activists who hated me. Half from “leaders” in our industry who had been waiting for me to fail.
Outside the wall-to-wall windows, the beach sparkled in the afternoon sunshine and a pulsing energy emanated from the beachgoers streaming past us towards the water. I could hear the low, rhythmic pulse of Latin music, watched the light glancing off yellow beach umbrellas. It was a perfectly gorgeous, humidly sticky Miami day.
And I was too pissed off to enjoy it.
I sipped my green smoothie and yanked my diffuser closer to my face, inhaling a mango-citrus-ginger blend that I used to create a tranquil, calming atmosphere in my offices. It wasn’t working.
Until recently, I’d very rarely felt this kind of fury. But I was furious: at myself, at Ferris Mark, at the people formerly known as my fans. It was a strange, needling sensation that made me want to cry and throw my diffuser all at the same time.
My watch beeped, reminding me about an emergency board meeting in two minutes. I yanked open my lower file cabinet drawer, searching for my contracts folder. My fingers roamed over the pages quickly, aware of the time, when a splash of red caught my eye.
There, shoved at the very bottom of the drawer, was an old photo I’d once had framed on my desk. I was twelve years old, squished on either side by my grinning parents—supportive, even then, of all of my dreams. For the first time ever, I was actually happy my parents were currently back-packing, traveling out of the country with limited cell service. I yearned for their presence as a comfort—but was relieved they didn’t have to see their only daughter smeared through the press.
I passed my thumb over the worn picture, the faded smiling faces. In it, we were at a stand I’d set up to raise money for endangered animals by selling friendship bracelets I’d made. My face was dark brown and beach-sandy, my hair a snarled mess, a toothy grin on my face. It wasn’t Instagram-worthy; I wasn’t looking for the best light or coolest pose.
I’d raised $817 that day—no small feat for a twelve-year-old.
Money can also make things much more complicated. This will be part of your struggle as a future leader.
I bit my lip, caressed the photo.
And stuck it next to my monitor.
Sylvia and the board members barged into my office not a second later. I stood, forgetting about the photo—the memory—immediately. We were going to finalize plans to go back to our old supplier and examine the media reaction to my apology. Derek was letting us borrow his crisis-management team as we worked to fix my reputation. I wasn’t looking forward to the meeting.
But at least we were moving forward.
Plus, in an hour I got to see Beck.
To give him a check.
That was the only reason I wanted to see him, of course.
So hot, bearded men are your type?
They hadn’t been. The problem was that I was starting to see past Beck’s grumpy walls—his handsome face and charming half-grin were slowly revealing themselves beneath all that facial hair. And I still had that sneaking suspicion that Beck was a wild man, sexually-speaking—he was no longer an outlaw, but I bet he fucked like one.
And rode a motorcycle like one too.
I’d never told anyone this—never acted on it, too ambitious—but I was the shiny, happy good girl with an illicit interest in Bad Biker Boys. Beck was pressing on those secret buttons.
“Luna?” Sylvia prodded.
I sipped my smoothie, tried to calm down. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
Sylvia exchanged a glance with my CTO. “We’ve got bad news, I’m afraid.”
“I figured,” I said, steeling myself. “Sock it to me. Can’t be worse than last week, right?”
She tapped a stack of papers in front of her. “We’ve just heard from Fischer Home Goods. They’re considering terminating our store contract, which would cost us more than half of