The Secretive Billionaire and the Influencer

Limoncello

The Mediterranean Room is in Leslie’s office building in Belltown, near Hotel Edgewater, the place we had met yesterday. The Milton Building is as iconic as Lady Liberty in New York. Or the Space Needle here, in Seattle.

Lately, Leslie got the Milton upgraded, it is one of the most eco-friendly buildings in America. And among the most expensive ones.

The Mediterranean Room, on the first floor, is an elegant, intimate Italian bistro, with an entire forest of yellow, neon pink, and electric purple bougainvilleas cascading from pots. I can see thriving orchids in bamboo pots. And sleek terrazzo walls, floor, and counter, and modern bamboo paneling. Ambient, colorful LED lights. Large photos and oil paintings of Rome city views, Fontana di Trevi, Fontana dei Leoni, Fontana del Nettuno. The Gothic Cathedral of Milan. Sunlit, narrow streets, balconies with colorful potted flowers. Colorful houses on the terraced hillsides of Amalfi Coast, over the turquoise sea.

Leslie is sitting next to me at one of the cozy tables in a faraway corner. We both love and value privacy. Especially for a business meeting.

We order pasta with firm tofu and marinara sauce, and minestrone soup. Our dinner consists of typical Italian aromas: a rich array of tomato, lemon zest, oregano, olive oil, rosemary, and pepper. And Leslie orders Limoncello.

She loves eating, she enjoys the delicious, savory meal. Yet she is slim. A sense of anxiety pierces me. I live with anorexia.

I want to be thinner. I love fine food, but I can sacrifice it. If I want to be a successful influencer, I must look the part. I do not like failure. I want to excel at everything: studying, career, lifestyle, even my appearance.

But when I look at Leslie, eating happily, my fear and guilt are gone. I feel a lot more confident in her company. Plus, while her food is tasty and pleasant, it is healthy. She is a conscious eater.

Over dinner and lemon liqueur, I tell her that I love the place.

“It’s beautiful,” I look around. “And I love Italy. I have always wanted to go there.”

“I spend a few weeks in Rome, the Amalfi Coast, and the French Riviera every year,” she says. “I have friends and business partners there.” She points at small photos on the walls. I look at them carefully. People are in the center of the images. Leslie is among them, in turquoise and magenta summer clothes. “Those photos were made on my European tours. Once we start our mutual podcast, you should come, too.”

An invitation to Rome. Sounds good. My family can afford it.

“Those fountains are a delight in summer heat. They make the city cooler, more pleasant. Even the scent of water and the water spray - very nice. And you’ll love the museums. The paintings, the sculptures. Rome is a miracle for art lovers. I hear that painting is your hobby --”

She even looked into my social media profiles. I am touched. Probably she likes me. She is friendly with me. Probably, she is tapping into new opportunities.

“When I was younger,” I say with a sense of nostalgia. “Now I mostly do digital art.”

She smiles.

“You’re very creative. That’s what we need for our new podcast.”

Podcast. I am startled.

“It should be a newsletter or a blog, Leslie,” I say warily. “I cannot perform to save my life.”

It is an understatement. I have stage fright. I am pathologically introverted. I have a high anxiety level. I could never be around people since I was a kid. When Mom put me in a private kindergarten, kids - white kids, since kids are overwhelmingly white in Seattle - made fun of me. They pulled my curly shoulder-length braids that I decorated with translucent amber, neon pink, and lemon-green plastic butterflies. One of the boys caught a mint green butterfly and pulled it out of my hair.

“Give it back!” I was enraged. I loved my butterflies. He sneered and did not give it back. I clawed at his hand. He let go of the butterfly.

When I drew away from them or, goodness forbid, started crying, they bullied me. When Mom took me home, I announced that I would never go back to kindergarten.

Mom sat down next to me, her large, almond-shaped, hazel eyes were bright, shiny, concerned.

“But you could have little friends,” she told me kindly, and took my tiny hand into her soft, warm mocha hand.

I shook my head, my butterflies were flying and flapping, and I cried hard.

“She should probably stay at home,” Grandma said with a sigh.

To my delight, Grandma did not force me to go to kindergarten. She could get her way to homeschool me. She arranged a tiny room, an empty office space, for me at her newspaper’s headquarters, right next to her office, where I watched cartoons and drew. Grandma and Mom looked in on me when they had time. I was a well-behaved kid.

And smart. I was ready to start school at six, I excelled at math and taught myself to read, Grandma and Mom were extremely proud of it. But I still was not interested in other kids. I was perfectly happy at home. By now, I could read tales and stories, a magical world opened up for me. Mom brought me kid encyclopedias about the solar system, dinosaurs, animals, and faraway countries. Grandma had lots of great books, classics, whenever I could, I read them.

When I met Grandma’s friends, they always praised me for being a little lady already, polite, quiet, well-behaved, smart. I liked them, and I was confident among them. They were successful Black women, I knew someday I would be like them. They were my inspiration.

I grew up with privilege.

And now? Word got around. People knew about my upcoming deal with Leslie. This morning, Grandma's friends called to congratulate me. Even the Mediterranean Room's waiters and patrons heard about it.

I can already sense envious eyes on me, people talk to me differently, their tone is different. I can see the prying eyes, probably judgmental, probably wary. They want to know why Leslie Milton selected me. Until now, I was a promising young woman from a sheltered, comfortable background, living in a safe and happy bubble in my Grandma’s Windermere estate, getting online degrees from the University of Pennsylvania and Columbia, studying marketing.

Now things have changed, I got an opportunity most people would envy. I am in Belltown, the business hub of our city, about to sign a contract with one of the most powerful women in America.

From now on, I will have less time for my newsletter. I love it dearly, it is a big part of my identity. But I cannot wait to start our mutual business.

Problem is, Leslie wants me to perform in videos. And I know I am unfit.

“Be confident and optimistic,” she smiles at me. “You have an excellent memory, you sound cultured. I’ve seen you at gatherings at your grandma's teas. You’re great with people.”

“With my people, yes,” I insisted. “But performing for strangers? It will be awkward.”

More than awkward. It will be a nosedive.

“After dinner, I will get a rehearsal for you,” she decided. “We will find your strengths, Laelia.”

My strengths have nothing to do with performing. I have an idea that could save me, but right now, I am not sharing it with her.

I enjoy the marinara sauce pasta and the opulent Mediterranean feel of the bistro.

After dinner, we drink Limoncello, it is sweet, fresh, aromatic, and citrusy.

I feel optimistic, even if Leslie wants me to perform in a video.

As we go upstairs on an elevator, Leslie is talking to me.

“You will have to do live podcasts and streaming often once our podcasts are public,” she explains her plans.

The idea gives me the creeps.

On the second floor, we got out of the elevator and she opens her office.

It is luxurious, modern, yet eco-friendly. Seems she loves terrazzo, cork, bamboo. And, of course, flowers. I can see orchids everywhere, on her large desk, on the windowsill, on shelves, and in a corner, she has a collection of them. She harbors some special love for electric purple ones, but there are some pale yellow and bright yellow ones. There is plenty of natural light, even if her windows overlook north.

She walks to her desk, and signals me to go to a spot, in front of a pale yellow or beige wall and some orchids, a potted areca palm, and books on a light brown shelf. I have a bad feeling.

“Okay, Laelia,” she says cheerfully, and she takes out her expensive smartphone. “We can start right away. Say something about our new podcast. Just as we’ve agreed.”

She starts recording with her phone.

I force a confident smile on my face.

“Hi, everyone. This is Laelia Parker. I’m honored to work with Leslie Milton. Our new podcast is about trends, news, eco-friendly living, self-improvement. Tune in!”

Leslie lifts up a hand and shakes her head. She is, for a second, less optimistic as usually. She stops recording.

“No, not good. Talk a bit louder. And smile, for Pete’s sake. You look as though you’re struggling.”

I am struggling. I love to express myself in writing, but performing? For a camera?

“Let’s try it again,” Leslie orders me.

I flash a big, forced smile into the camera, and start talking.

Leslie shakes her head and stops recording.

“No way. Your voice sounds hollow.”

“I can’t perform, Leslie.”

“You have to. That’s what audiences want. Videos, podcasts, something personal, something relatable.”

I feel alarmed. A crash is coming.

Sure as hell I am relatable.

I had an upbringing in privilege, I live in an estate with my wealthy family, and I have anxiety disorders I carefully hide from everyone. Surprisingly, not even Mom and Grandma notice it. And they are caring, loving family members. But I do not want them to know, and I never talk about it.

Failure is not an option in my family. My favorite cousin, Brandon - my Great-Aunt Marcia’s grandson, sixteen years my junior - tried it. He dropped out of two colleges before he graduated from one. In digital arts and graphic design. His family was deeply disappointed in him. Life was hard for Brandon, and his mom and grandma were hard on him, and his father is not talking to him anymore, or, if he does, he throws ugly insults at him. I witnessed him walking a dark road of depression while he was a struggling young digital artist. Not that he is not talented. His beautiful works all but come to alive on the screen. He can draw portraits, buildings, landscapes. He can design funny and unique videos, like a tiny fish exploring the sea. But as an artist, a beginner, you have to fight for every opportunity, you have to wait for a breakthrough. The family could have opened doors for him, but they chose not to.

By the way, Brandon’s cousin, Tom, the son of Auntie Marcia’s younger daughter, is still at university, but we already know he would graduate with honors. And someday, he would make plenty of money. Auntie Marcia and Grandma think the family’s future heavily depend on Tom. They look at Brandon, and they sigh. It was not always that way. When Brandon was a kid, a tiny, cheerful, polite little elf who adored our cats and loved to draw, Auntie Marcia could not have been prouder of him, and called him her little sunshine because of his happy smile.

Later on, his father wanted him to become an engineer. Brandon was an artist, and he hated math.

You better not fail anything in this family.

Two hours later, she and I are still trying hard. I have told a short, cheerful, real, and spontaneous introduction exactly twenty-eight times. And Leslie is less and less satisfied.

“I can’t believe you can’t do this, Laelia. You could if you tried harder.”

I am tired, exhausted, and frightened.

“Your audience wants to have fun. They want a new video every day,” she explains. Her eyes are intense, serious. Strangely, she is not aggressive, not demanding. She is actually trying to help me. Yet I am freezing. I always freeze when I have to contact people.

“Nobody can afford to skip videos,” she goes on. “Not even Charli d’Amelio.”

I know that. Everyone who studied marketing knows it. Probably every person on Earth knows it.

Still, I am an author, not a performer.

“Abby Phillips is much better at this,” Leslie murmurs unhappily.

My antennaes go up. I sense danger.

Abby Phillips is one of the most successful Gen Z influencers. She is the most extroverted, down-to-earth, and popular girl online. Everything I am not. I cannot stand a chance against her. Sure as hell Abby Phillips works with Leslie. Abby had bragged about the sponsorships she got through Milton News.

I should have talked to Auntie Marcia before I came here. Or Maxine.

I close my eyes and exhale slowly, I hold up both hands to gesture.

“Leslie, I have an idea. You should perform in the videos.”

She is desperate and amused.

“No, I’m old. Young people want someone at their age, relatable, authentic. I’m the corporate boss they hate, curated, fake. They can’t trust me. Get it?” she asks with a gentle smile, her crystal-blue eyes are serious and deep.

She is right. It is unfair but true. She would face judgment.

Still, I am talentless in performing.

“You should just leave your comfort zone,” she argues.

“You can perform and I can’t.”

“We will see. We will post your latest videos to audiences.”

I am horrified. It will be a flop.

I can already see that I cannot talk her out of it. She wants me to learn my lesson and try harder.

“At least create an intro with you,” I tell her. “And let me send our introduction first, a short letter.”