The Secretive Billionaire and the Influencer

I cannot wait to get started. Only a few hours earlier, it seemed the best idea in the world. I was electrified, filled with hope. I could already see myself as the most successful influencer, having millions of followers, signing contracts with big brands. Right now, I am not sure. Adrenaline kicks in, my heart is running. Probably, I just get myself in trouble, it will be awkward. I have a sense, a foreboding, I cannot live up to expectations. Not to others’ expectations, not my standards. I cannot compete with Grandma, the legend. She is at home now, in her discreetly expensive, peach and beige living room, having tea, cakes, and cozy talk with her best friends, the powerful Black - and white - matriarchs of Seattle, and she has no idea what I am planning. Neither does Mom, and none of Grandma’s friends. Mom would be frightened. Grandma would support me as always. Anything I do is fine for her. The mamas would be excited, especially Auntie Marcia, and even Maxine. They would root for me and encourage me. I need some encouragement badly. I listen to the pleasant live jazz, the hum of the audience, laughter, the room is packed. It is an upscale, expensive place, Hotel Edgewater, with chandeliers and floor-to-ceiling windows that offer the most beautiful waterfront view. There are potted flower arrangements near the walls and the oversized windows, lavish roses, orchids, and dahlias in bamboo pots, a sea of bright and pale pink, yellow, red, and purple. I am delighted, I love flowers. I want to look nice today. Usually, I look like a student. I have a round face, wide-set, almond-shaped, dark eyes, and full burgundy lips that often curl in a smile. My nose is a bit too prominent. “There's nothing wrong with your nose,” Grandma snapped. Sure as hell she says that, Grandma's nose looks exactly like mine. I have a mocha complexion. I am petite and athletic. Grandma and Mom are petite, too, but they are round. Sure, they have no anorexia. Today, I look like a confident, smart person. Elegant linen Patagonia pants and top, in teal and lemon green, they look summery and cheerful, and they go well with my night-shaded skin: mocha, with warm golden tones. I am walking across the room with a big, confident smile on my face, not showing that I feel confused. I am watching the others carefully. “Leslie, it’s great to see you,” a guy says aloud. I am looking there, and I can already see her in the cozy gold LED lights and in the turquoise, amber, and green ambient lights. I recognize Leslie Milton right away. I came here tonight because I want to talk to her. She is sitting at a table with a cascading purple orchid in a pot, she is alone, people gravitate toward her, they greet her, smile at her, she greets them with small nods and bright smiles, there is a glow in those intense blue eyes as she talks to others with ease and mingles with the elegant crowd. She is a white woman. Petite, with a ramrod-straight posture. She is well-dressed, in a tailored white cotton-and-linen pantsuit, she is wearing fine jewelry, violet precious stones, most likely amethyst. Shoulder-length, straight, light brown hair, crystal blue eyes, a warm smile on her pretty face. She is a boss. If you live with Grandma Liz Parker, you can recognize a woman boss in a second. I approach her, she notices me right away. The band is playing a song about dancing with Mami. The lyrics are fun, the melody is beautiful. Smooth jazz is filling the room, a pulsing, intoxicating mix of saxophone, vibraphone, trombone, clarinet, guitar, piano, and drums. “Hi, Laelia.” Leslie’s voice is a husky, firm alto. She knows me from Grandma’s bridge parties and afternoon teas. We have met there often, exchanged a few polite words and shared laughs over lemonade. Once, back in the day, as the Mamas always say, in the nineties, Leslie started her career at Grandma’s newspaper, and they remained friends through the years. Grandma, unlike Mom and I, is a big extrovert, she has a circle of friends. When I was a kid, whenever I met a Black woman - or white woman - at Grandma’s age, they smiled at me and said, “Back in the day, in the seventies, your grandma and I were fellow fighters. We all wanted to make a difference. She was our leader. What a woman, old Liz Parker.” Most of Grandma’s close friends are Black women, the Seattle matriarchs, running their businesses, beauty product businesses, clothing stores, book publishers, hotels, or they are wives of local politicians. But Grandma has white friends, too, allies, wealthy white women - and men. Her white women attend her Sunday tea gatherings or luncheons. Leslie Milton is one of them. But the matriarchs say she has become too great for Seattle. She runs her media empire, and she is a billionaire. Last Sunday, the matriarchs were talking about her during Grandma’s bridge party. “Someday, Leslie might be Madam President,” Grandma said with quiet pride. “I’ve trained her. She knows what she is doing.” “I hope so,” Mary Walker, a round, elderly Black mama, said in a hushed voice. My ears perked up. There was gossip in Mary’s voice. Rumors are priceless currency in Seattle. Strangely, Grandma is uninterested in gossiping. She is a leader by nature, and she is too straightforward to gossip. She says it as it is. But the others? They love information. They are supportive and friendly, yet they love to talk. After Mary’s remark, there was an excited murmur around the table. I had noticed earlier that there was always a strange excitement among the women whenever Leslie showed up in person or her name came up. The women, Black and white, old and young, were interested in her, the friendly but secretive media mogul who lived in our neighborhood, Windermere, in an opulent yet eco-friendly and modern estate, without a husband or children, running a media empire, often traveling to New York, Los Angeles, or Chicago. Leslie was born into a Seattle textile-merchant family as the oldest of four. She had attended Yale and Harvard. Then she returned to Seattle and started working at Seattle Noir, Grandma’s newspaper in the nineties. In Leslie’s hometown, her women, her friends, are talking about her with a strange mix of admiration, love, pride, and envy. There is this line between us, Black women and white women, even if we are friends and allies: white women never have to face discrimination from racist people. When they get loud and assertive, nobody labels them as angry Black women. They do not have to worry about cops harassing their kids. They do not have to live up to our rigid respectability standards. But they are nice and understanding, and we like them. And sure as hell, they have their own respectability standards, and those are strict. And there is Leslie Milton, separated even from the powerful white women of Seattle. It all provokes curiosity. “Don’t you think it’s strange Leslie never talks about her private life with any of us?” Marjorie Tyler, a blond white woman, said at the Sunday bridge party, looking around the women at the table. “There’s nothing to talk about,” Hazel Clark, a Black mama, said seriously. “She doesn’t even have time for a private life. She works late every day, even on weekends.” “It’s nice of her that she always finds time for us, whenever her schedule allows,” Aylin, Mary Walker’s daughter, said. “She’s fun. I love it when she’s here.” There were nods. And more rumors. “She could have guys anytime. That rich, handsome guy, Jay Logan, dated her when they were young. He’s still friendly with her.” “Tim Nelson, too.” “But nobody is good enough for her.” “Men can’t handle that she has money and power,” my great-aunt Marcia said. Women murmured their agreement. “She loves being alone,” Maxine Wells, a slender Black mama, nods. “She has friends and her media business. She has a happy life.” “She will run for office,” Grandma said again. “She should,” Aylin Walker nodded with a big smile. “About time. A woman in the White House!” “Not in our lifetime,” her mom, Mary, added warily. “She’s not crazy to give up her good life,” Lynn Graham, another older Black woman, shook her head. “She has plenty of money already, and she does whatever she wants. And she’s powerful already. Carina Hanks and Jazzy Cory always ask for her advice.” Carina Hanks, a former Vice President, a slender, nice-looking, brilliant Black woman, and Jazzy Cory, an elegant and pretty, slim and feminine Black politician from Texas, were indeed friends with Leslie Milton. “But those gossips about her living alone,” Marjorie Tyler said, almost in a whisper. “I don’t know what you have against her living alone,” Grandma snapped. “I like her. She was always respectful towards me. She’s smart as hell. She did a lot for this country. Remember those girls’ schools she funded? And the solar energy program she paid for? The health research program? She gives back.” There was no further talk about Leslie Milton. Nobody wanted to fight with Grandma. They never made remarks in Leslie’s presence - nobody wanted to fight with her, either. And she did not mind what people were talking behind her back. “Leslie has a great future, and so does your granddaughter, Liz,” Hazel said with a friendly smile. The Mamas looked at me, smiles flashed. They are proud of me. I love them. “You gave her all the opportunities in the world,” Marjorie said warmly. “She may have a future in DC,” Mary agreed. This is how I got the idea: to attend the Seattle Influencer Summit today and offer Leslie Milton an idea about a possible business partnership. # Right now, I am looking at her, she watches me with curious, laser-sharp eyes. “I’m looking for you,” I tell her. “I came here to meet you. I think readers need stories like the ones you and my Grandma shared in the nineties. But can you reach young readers? I have ideas how to do it.” Her face is unflappable, but I know that - not unlike Grandma - she is working hard to stay relevant and ahead of her competition. Audiences are changing. They have to reach younger readers. Millennials, Gen Z. “Young people want inspiring stories,” I tell her. “They have good ideas, they want their own business, their own life, but they do not know how. They need your experience.” I produce a smartphone and tap it. I tilt it toward her. She is looking at the display. I am still tapping the phone. A list of my latest newsletters, my headlines, the most successful ones, those that got the most clicks and likes. Social justice, climate change, anxiety issues, motivational stories, pop culture. She is scrolling, her crystal-blue eyes are on the screen, she keeps nodding slowly, and hums. Music is pulsing, people are laughing. My heart runs like a sledgehammer. I am watching the orchid on Leslie's table. Its fine, purple petals are vibrant and alive, almost iridescent. “Why don’t you sit down?” Leslie murmurs, still watching the screen: metrics, open rates, the number of subscribers. More than a million subscribers. I take a seat next to her. Seems I was destined to sit at the table with the Mamas. Then she looks up from the display. “We should talk about it over dinner. Would you have time for me tomorrow at five? At the Mediterranean Room?” My mood and my confidence jump straight into the stratosphere. She is interested in the offer. Otherwise, she would not invite me for dinner. She was known for being curt and straightforward. “Thank you.” I am glowing. “ You’re amazing.” She smiles at me. #