Wild Open Hearts (Bluewater Billionaires) - Kathryn Nolan Page 0,58

your trust in us. Such a drastic action need not occur. Kombucha?”

They weren’t really a kombucha crowd, but I still poured some for a few of the willing visitors and then settled back into my chair. “Tell me your concerns. I’m here to listen,” I said, accessing a deep, zen-like space to keep from freaking out or tearing up all the papers on the table and running away. Daisy could hide me out on her yacht and Cameron and Emily would helicopter in corn chips, I was sure of it.

“Let me be clear,” Kristin said. “We’re here to formally end our partnership with Wild Heart. Just so there’s no confusion.”

I kept my smile broad and hid any strain. “I see. I want to remind you that until Ferris Mark lied to us, and four other major cosmetics companies, our relationship was nothing but incredibly beneficial. Financially and from a marketing perspective. Young people in America care about the causes that Wild Heart stands for. Not only cruelty-free products, but a company that pays its employees a living wage, a company that values gender, racial and ethnic diversity in its hiring practices. A corporation that puts social justice at the center of its decision making.”

“Until you didn’t,” Kristin said. “And that’s the issue. I know you’re working with a new supplier now, but the public fallout has been too severe. It’s easier for us to cut contact with you altogether.” She smiled like a snake. “You understand. The public doesn’t want to buy products at Fischer Home Goods from a company they believe has lied to them.”

“I don’t understand, actually,” I said. “Since my work with Lucky Dog, the tide has been turning and my PR team is working on rebranding and re-messaging with a focus on honesty and transparency. We fully intend to correct the mistakes that were made. In fact, many of them have been corrected already.”

“How does your connection with the Miami Devils play into this?” she asked, crossing her arms.

The question threw me for such a loop that three awkward seconds ticked with no pithy response from me.

“What are you referring to, Kristin?” Sylvia asked sharply. “Wild Heart has never had a connection with a motorcycle gang. That’s preposterous and, I might add, not relevant to a business negotiation.”

“It is if your CEO is dating a member, openly. Fischer is a national company but based in Miami, like Wild Heart. We’re all very familiar with their reputation.” Kristin leaned in across the table. “Careful. It’s tarnishing your perfect one, Ms. Da Rosa.”

Her quick, icy tone felt like an actual slap across the face. Two years ago, Kristin and I had been colleagues, working together to make a partnership we hoped would be lucrative and revolutionary.

This happened to me quite a bit. Between my active social media accounts and my generally bouncy personality, people usually assumed I was a vapid, glittering fairy without any bite.

“Careful,” I repeated to Kristin. “My personal life and the personal life of Beck Mason is of absolutely zero concern to you, Fischer Home Goods or the consumers. This company is valued at over a billion dollars and has been credited with changing the production standards of the beauty industry. You either want to continue partnering with an innovator or you don’t.”

“We don’t,” Kristin said. “I’ll have the termination papers sent over within the hour.”

The Fischer team stood as one and exited the Wild Heart headquarters. Kristin didn’t even have the decency to look disappointed, or bittersweet, or something.

She just left.

Absent their scrutiny, and in the relative comfort of Sylvia’s presence, I let my head drop into my hands. For a moment, no more. I wanted to be back in Beck’s office, stepping into his body heat and scent. If Beck were here, he’d wrap me into a bear hug—no question.

“It really is easier for them, Luna,” Sylvia said, interrupting my thoughts. “It’s business. If they smell danger, they’ll drop you and pick up another company. Money works fast, you know that. And even though you believe Wild Heart is vital and innovative, they only see you as a maker of mascaras. And there are many mascara makers in this industry for them to choose from.”

“We’re not special,” I repeated bitterly.

“You are,” Sylvia said. “You are special. They’re not.”

I stalked over to the conference room door. Locked it. Leaned against it and crossed my arms over my chest.

“Can I ask your honest opinion, Sylvia?”

“Of course,” she said. I trusted her opinion—more than Jasmine’s, I