Wild Open Hearts (Bluewater Billionaires) - Kathryn Nolan Page 0,8

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