Off The Record: Billionaires of Palm Beach, #5

By Sara Celi

Interviewing Landon Sparks is the biggest assignment of my career.

He's mysterious, controversial, and the new billionaire owner of the hottest social media company in the world. When he agrees to let me do a profile on him, I'm shocked and elated.

I also don't expect him to also be so... sexy.

What starts out as a friendly interview quickly becomes something more--something I can't control, and something that blurs the lines between professional and personal.

Suddenly, everything I've worked for is at risk. But maybe it's worth it?

All titles in the "Billionaires of Palm Beach" series can be read individually and independently. Download this swoon-worthy story now!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lowe Interactive Media, LLC
• Release date: Apr 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224580392

Book preview

PROLOGUE

BEFORE

He knew what this was .

He’d been here before. Many nights. Too many to count, too many to remember, all fading into a froth of forgetting. One woman blended into another, then another, and...

That night was no different.

A life of thoughtless, meaningless hookups had its appeal when he was younger, fresh off a four-year scholarship to Caltech and on his way to making his first million. Back then, he somehow understood that if he wanted to achieve his dreams, he couldn’t let his heart get in the way of his head. But all too soon, the endless parade of one-night stands became a habit he couldn’t break.

This needed to end. He wanted more than what awaited him.

She was already naked and sprawled across his enormous bed. Her creamy, alluring thighs invited him to come closer; her heaving breasts begged for his touch. He’d sleep with her soon enough, dipping his wick into the well of desire once again. He’d take her as he’d taken so many before. It would be easy; there was no risk, no concern that it would cost him anything more than his time. He’d certainly never have to pay with his heart.

But how long would the satisfaction last this time? In the deepest, darkest corners of his soul, he didn’t know. No, that wasn’t true.

He knew his soul no longer existed. Maybe he’d never had one.

CHAPTER ONE

REBECCA OWENS

Eighty-five thousand , two hundred two subscribers.

Eighteen months of effort rolled into a spreadsheet of emails, each set to receive the newsletter I planned to send out in the next thirty seconds. I studied the addresses once more, satisfied with the effort I’d put in to get these people to trust me. Naysayers had been so skeptical when I announced my departure from The New York Times in favor of a move back to the Midwest. I planned to set up a monetized online newsletter that showcased the kind of writing I wanted to do—gritty, in-depth, wide-ranging profiles on celebrities, influencers, thought leaders, and business magnates. These were the sort of write-ups I’d never get a chance to do with a job on the local desk; that job was focused on mining police scanners, press releases, and social media in a desperate frenzy for stories. This was real journalism.

At least, real journalism to me.

But the decision to leave my job at the country’s most well-known media company hadn’t come lightly, and I garnered more than a few detractors. One coworker proclaimed in my presence that no one leaves here willingly, they do it reluctantly. Another insisted I should wait my turn, working my way up the NYT food chain. And a third cited this person’s failed podcast and that person’s shuttered blog as evidence I wouldn’t make it on my own.

Now I had.

I’d more than made it. I thrived. A list of over eighty-five thousand subscribers was a damn good number for a fledgling publication. The social media accounts I used to promote it had good engagement too. And the move back home hadn’t been a bad decision either, because it was much cheaper to run a business in Ohio than New York. Everything about the pace of life in Cincinnati was different and allowed my dreams to expand.

I gave my latest profile another quick read and queued it for release, checking little boxes along the way about how I wanted it delivered to readers. Admittedly, most of the people subscribed to American Profile opted for the free version, but a few more than ten percent bothered to kick me a few bucks each month on a recurring payment.

Enough to make a living. Not to get rich, per se, but enough. Take that, haters. One or two viral write-ups, and I’d be well on my way to foraging my own media empire. Yes, yes, and more yes.

I waited for confirmation that the email was on its way before I shut down my computer and pushed back my wobbly desk chair. My makeshift home office had a view of busy Vine Street and the bustling neighborhood below that had become Over-the-Rhine in the last decade. Restaurants, bars, boutiques, art galleries, and fair-trade coffee shops spiraled out from here, getting denser each year as developers rehabbed and renovated once dilapidated storefronts and apartment housing. Growing up in Cincinnati, I never considered living in OTR, but when I decided to move back to the city from NYC, it was the first place I chose. This neighborhood came closest to having the melting-pot quality I loved about my former city. You could take the girl out of the Big Apple, but you could never take the Big Apple out of the girl. Not once she got a real taste of city living.

Also, from my new condo, I only had a short drive to Spring Grove Cemetery. It was the final resting place for my parents after a horrific car accident took their lives during my senior year of college at Ohio University. I could see them any time I wanted, and it only took ten minutes to get there.

I glanced at the clock on the wall adjacent to the windowed one where I’d set up my workstation. Just after four on a Friday. Not bad—I was done with edits, and the weekend was about to start. Over the next few minutes, subscribers across the country would open my latest, a five-thousand-word wrap-up of a conversation with Tanner Vance, Hollywood’s biggest movie star. He was in the middle of a press junket for his latest action film, a thriller set in Positano, but my profile focused more on his life with his wife, Brie, and his lifestyle away from the big screen. Paid accounts would get a separate podcast rundown with my detailed analysis of his latest work. And maybe a few of them would share the newsletter, leading to a handful of new readers.

It was all a writer could really ask for these days.

I stood from the chair and crossed into the small living room that united my home office with the rest of the unit. It wasn’t large, but it had floor-to-ceiling windows and a small balcony. The space opened to the galley kitchen, and my bedroom was on the other side. I took my jean jacket from the closet, pulled my brown crossbody purse from the hook on the door, and looked at myself in the full-length mirror hanging on the wall. Brown hair tumbled down my shoulders in thick waves, green eyes, and a heart-shaped face. My reflection was makeup free and I looked tired, but I didn’t care. I took my phone from its wireless charger and slid it into my bag. After a few days toiling on the profile, it was time to get some fresh air.

And by fresh air, I meant getting a drink at Freeport Coffee and Wine Bar, the outfit that operated in the street-level space below my condo.

The spot opened a few months before I bought the place, and my realtor used it as a huge selling point, saying it was a neighborhood amenity I’d use all the time. She was right; I loved it, stopping in for a morning coffee or a late-night glass of wine more often than I wanted to admit. When I arrived that afternoon, I took a place at the far end of the knobby sculpted wood bar.

Let me guess, Olivia Shreve said from behind the bar when I slid onto my usual stool, a weather-beaten one I suspected was prematurely aged to give the place a more established look. Since it’s Friday afternoon, you’re looking for a glass of the usual.

You know it. I hung my brown leather bag on a hook underneath the bar. Merlot. Large pour.

We just got one in from a small vineyard in France I think you’ll love. She wiped her hands on her denim apron. I take it the latest newsletter went out?

Yep, it’s in your inbox and I think you’ll love it. Tanner Vance was very candid.

Can’t wait to read it. Olivia had been one of my earliest subscribers, signing up a day or so after I finished moving into the building. She let out a satisfied, dreamy sigh, a serene expression crossing her face, the one I often saw when people talked about Tanner Vance. I couldn’t blame them, he regularly ranked atop lists of Hollywood’s sexiest and most powerful men. I hope you included some good photos of him too.

Only the best for my readers. I grinned. You’ll have to let me know what you think.

I absolutely will.

Olivia moved away to get my drink, and I took my phone from my purse. With a few clicks, I checked on the newsletter delivery stats, making sure the email was moving into global inboxes. So far, so good—a fair number had opened the piece, and one or two comments registered on the main site that held the archive of all my work. I shared the post on a few social media sites before locking the phone again when Olivia returned.

Nicely done. I placed my device face down on the bar and smiled at my friend. Olivia had poured what looked like half the bottle into the wine glass. I can always count on you to take care of me.

Well, I figured you aren’t driving anyway. So, cheers.

Cheers to walking home. I took the glass by the stem and raised it to her, even though her hands were empty. "And cheers to another edition of American Profile."

Olivia clapped her hands in agreement, but once I sipped the first taste, she screwed her mouth to one side, an expression she often wore when she was about to share a big idea that might not necessarily work. I braced myself for what I suspected was coming. Hey, I was thinking about something.

What?

You have a decent readership, don’t you?

More than most national magazines and newspapers. I shrugged. My reply wasn’t a humble brag, I didn’t know how to truly gauge my readership. A newsletter and a newspaper weren’t equal, no matter what I told myself. That truth was a reality that bothered me, even as I saw my readership improve. Would I ever measure up to my own standards? The newsletter has a great open rate. Almost eighty percent.

But you could still get more readers.

Couldn’t everyone? I cocked my head. Why do you ask?

Well...okay, hear me out. She braced her arms on the bar. Have you ever thought about doing a profile on Landon Sparks?

I recoiled at the name, shocked, her question coming basically out of nowhere. Of all the places I might have expected the conversation to go, this wasn’t one of them. A profile on European royalty, sure, or maybe a discussion on a literary luminary, but... Landon Sparks?

Yep. Landon Sparks. The billionaire. You know who I’m talking about, right?

Yeah, I replied. Was there anyone on Earth who didn’t know who Landon Sparks was? His fame was about as vast as his fortune. But...why him?

Why not?

I gaped at her. She couldn’t be serious. There was no way. "For one thing, he doesn’t do interviews. Ever."

He might do one with you. She raised her right eyebrow—black, well-groomed, and thick with brow enhancer that made it look almost cartoonish in the yellowed mood lighting of the bar. "Look what you’ve done with American Profile since you started it."

That’s kind. I sipped some more of my wine. My friend was supportive and a huge cheerleader for me, but... I’m sure the richest man in America under forty has more important things to do than spend his time with me.

I replaced my glass on the bar and wrinkled my nose as I thought more about him. Landon Sparks. Gross. Apart from his money, and his good looks, Landon was one of the most controversial businessmen in the country. A profile on him would be weird.

Besides, he’s...well...

A jerk? she asked.

Yes, and an asshole. I laughed. Count on Olivia to put a fine point on it, even though I was the one who had a way with words. An online troll. An arrogant twerp. And that’s if I feel like being nice.

Okay, you’re not wrong there, Olivia mused. He’s literally the only reason I’m still on Chatter. I hate that app, but he makes it interesting.

I scoffed.

You should see the meme he shared this morning. Hilarious.

Yeah, but...he’s...he’s destructive.

That was perhaps a charitable way of putting things, and in line with the conventional wisdom about Landon—that he used his influence to purposely bother people on the internet. I frowned as I considered some of Landon’s most notable posts on social media. Most consisted of him getting into petty fights with other business leaders and shit-posting about whatever he thought counted as violations of free speech by so-called coastal elites.

The idea of Landon owning a huge social network wasn’t appetizing.

Honestly, if Chatter hadn’t been almost required as a member of the media, I wasn’t sure I would have been on the platform. Most discourse centered on hateful posts and divisive political content, and I often wondered if spending time there was good for my mental health. But Chatter was also a great place to find out trends and opinions on the next best thing. People often said what happened on Chatter was downstream from culture, and I couldn’t afford to miss any of that. So, I stayed on the site, despite my reservations. It was something I had to do.

Chatter is so much worse now that Landon owns it, I added to my friend. Like his own sick playground.

True. She paused and her eyebrows tightened a little. But I think some of what he posts is also pretty funny.

I resisted rolling my eyes at her comment. Being funny was one way he got away with his antics, as if it gave him an automatic pass for bad behavior. Landon might have all that money. But he’s also a misogynistic creep.

And one of the richest men in tech. Honestly, I don’t know why he decided to buy Chatter. Doesn’t he have enough going on with his satellite communications company?

I sneered. Satellite communications—another thing about Landon Sparks I found insufferable and...stupid. About five years earlier, the guy made seven hundred fifty million dollars on the sale of his online stock exchange, U-Trade. He turned around and put half of it up as collateral for Sparks Innovation, which he said would advance humanity and make life better on Earth. He got a lot of press for it, and SI’s contracts with the government had only made him more famous. He also expanded the company, branching out from satellites into applied robotics. It had all made him richer than Midas, and last year, he topped the Forbes list of richest people under forty-five.

God forbid Landon use any of his money getting rid of poverty or student loan debt.

I drank some more wine and considered all the flashy stunts Sparks Innovation had pulled over the last few years. Just like Landon, the company seemed to subscribe to the philosophy that all news was good news. Then I added, I mean, he could probably clear all the student loans in this country in one fell swoop if he wanted to. Just wipe the slate clean for everyone.

He could. Olivia sighed. Would be a nice thing to do.

But he won’t do it. Someone like that doesn’t need more oxygen. At all.

Maybe you’re right. Can I get you another one?

No, thanks. Finishing my drink, I glanced at my watch. I should probably go soon, anyway. I have an important night of takeout and binge-watching to get started on.

Olivia laughed.

The perfect way to start the weekend. I took my purse from the hook next to