Blonde Billionaire (Road to the Oval Office #1)

It was the most nerve-wracking day of my entire life.

He was the richest man in Miami. Every new real estate development on South Beach and downtown Miami had his name on it: Ronald Wolff. Even an auditorium at my alma mater had his name on it, thanks to a very generous donation he made during the last year of my undergrad. An absolute icon on the South Florida business and social scene, he started publicly toying with the idea of running for president of the United States. He was already the most powerful man in Florida, so a lot of people, myself included, assumed that it was just another bit of his self-described “harmless hyperbole” when the recently-divorced Wolff said that he wanted to be the most powerful man in the free world. We were wrong to dismiss him, though, as the idea seemed to gain more momentum within his own mind anytime a journalist asked him to comment on the true likelihood of such a venture.

Eventually, through fellow alumni and contacts on LinkedIn, I started seeing evidence that his aspiration was far beyond the idea stage-- it was blossoming into a legitimate campaign. Wolff was assembling his campaign team by reaching right into his own backyard, taking a somewhat atypical approach by choosing individuals from the corporate community. Actually, it certainly suited him, seeing as he was a complete political outsider, even though he had friends and connections within the legislative community, from mayors and senators to the governor himself.

And here I was, a recent MBA graduate in my first decent apartment, getting dressed and ready to go interview to be part of Ronald Wolff’s campaign staff. Stacy, my roommate and former classmate had talked me into going after a position within his public relations sub-team. I had a handful of prospects with several South Florida firms thanks to friends and HR types sharing my resume, but I didn’t feel locked into committing to any of them anytime soon. The freelance writing that I’d started doing while completing my MBA was still more than sufficient to pay my bills, so there was no real rush. Still , even before Stacy started aggressively sales-pitching me on the idea, I knew that it could be an intriguing kick-start to my career to be part of a successful political campaign staff, whether they won or lost. Even if I didn’t have the first clue as to what that world would be like. Even if I would find myself sitting at the end of my bed, unable to even decide between a smart-looking pants/cotton blazer combination or a classy leggings/sleeveless top with a peplum combo.

My hands were slightly sweaty thanks to the indecision, which was very unlike me. When Stacy and I first talked about it, I envisioned meeting with a pleasant yet assertive, maybe middle-aged female who had experience with hiring individuals for campaign staffs. When the online application packet asked for a soft-copy headshot attached with my resume, I didn’t think much of it-- in fact, I just went to my LinkedIn profile and used that same polished, professional picture from it, copy/pasted it into my digital resume and sent it off to the Wolff people with just two button clicks. When I got a response from them that my application was near the top of their list to come in for an in-person interview with Ronald Wolff himself, the situation got real and my anxiety showed up. The nerves only grew more raw as the interview day approached.

Dressing for another woman was one thing, especially one who was probably anticipating a certain “look”. But there, in my bedroom, I found myself trying to figure out what Wolff would want to see. I never did the math to figure out his age, but he’s been an icon in the business world for as long as I can remember. Despite that, he almost seemed to embody a sort of ageless energy with his overall look and demeanor. Having a beautifully coiffed head of blonde hair probably helped with that aesthetic. I’d only seen him in person once before, at a gala in Coral Gables, and he looked even more timeless and perfect in person than he ever did in print and on TV. He had such a tall, powerful stance, that seemed to intimidate and to welcome at the same time. His steely blue eyes could pierce like a hawk, but they completely warmed and softened when he broke into a smile or laugh, displaying his immaculate bright smile.

Thinking back to that night, I remembered seeing his then-wife  at his side. He had a knack for surrounding himself with beautiful people, and she was no different. Brianna, or, more appropriately, Brianna the Bosnian Bombshell, as the press had dubbed her, was always smartly dressed and frequently photographed and splashed across Florida’s “Best Dressed” sections of luxury magazines and websites. No doubt Wolff bought her the finest clothing that money could buy while they were together. But what would Brianna wear if she were me and about to interview with him, sight unseen? She obviously did enough to impress him at some point. I almost couldn’t believe myself for putting that much thought into how to dress myself. No, I was being a tactician, just like he would do, seeking to gain whatever advantage I could on the proverbial battlefield of business. That’s what I told myself, anyway, as I continued to shoo away imagery of Wolff and I sitting at some upscale restaurant terrace in the south of France, laughing a casual evening away. That’s when it finally occurred to me that I wasn’t just nervous because I was meeting with THE quintessential business tycoon, but because I’d probably always been somewhat infatuated from afar with THE quintessential business tycoon. Still, I reasoned as I looked for reasons to forgo the blazer and show off the sleeveless peplum look, this was a professional transaction. My personal feelings, imagined or otherwise, needed to remain tucked away while I stayed focused on the task at hand.

Out of habit, I did Google the address to the building and plug it into my car’s navigation, but it was pointless. Everyone knows exactly where Wolff Tower is-- its silhouette dominates the MIami Beach skyline as it overlooks the intercoastal waters. Even though I’d never had a reason to go directly to it, I was acutely aware of its location. I couldn’t help but smile at the novelty of actually typing ‘Wolff Tower’ into my browser. Once I arrived at the lobby of the building, I fought the urge to let my mouth drop open as I looked all around my surroundings like an astounded child. My expectation was that it would be top-notch, but I woefully underestimated the beauty of it all. There was nothing but marble, marble everywhere, in a gorgeous rich green color. The color of established money. In the middle of the lobby foyer, surrounded by tall white columns, was a massive statue-- a replica of the Winged Victory of Samothrace. There was an inner glee that I was actually able to identify a famous piece of work, probably because that was the only nugget of information that I retained from my art history class all those years ago.

Eventually, I made my way around all of the beauty of the lobby to the receptionist’s desk near the back of the lobby.

“Good afternoon,” I greeted the older gentleman opposite the counter. My ‘make a great first impression’ instincts kicked in immediately. Would it make a difference to Wolff if I had great rapport with the receptionist? Probably not, but I was going to stay intensely focused regardless. “I’m here for an interview with Mr. Wolff-- I think I’m his one o’clock?”

The gentleman stood up from behind his computer and returned my warmth. “Yes, ma’am, you are. He’s been expecting you.” Immediately, a sense of dread crept into my body though I tried to hide it behind my smile of faux confidence. I’d glanced at the wall clock near the lobby entrance-- it read 12:53. Was Wolff one of those types who considered you to be “late” if you weren’t fifteen minutes early? So much for that great first impression. Keep it together, Megyn. My mind wandered so far and so fast that I didn’t hear the receptionist say “Right this way.” At least, I assumed that’s what he must have said, because I finally came back to reality when he gestured toward the elevators to the left of his desk and said, “Ma’am?” as if he had expected an earlier response from me that never came. “Just hit the button for the 19th floor and his office is directly ahead of you as you exit the elevator.”

“Thank you so much,” I offered, briskly walking toward the elevator doors. One last surge of nervous energy jolted through my body and I could feel just a hint of cool sweat on my palms. I hadn’t felt so anxious in years, probably not since my days of opening college admittance letters. I stepped inside the elevator and hoped to take one last chance to inspect my outfit against the reflective surface of the inside elevator door. Instead, the view of Miami’s coastline distracted me. I wasn’t expecting a glass elevator. The view was familiar and yet unfamiliar all at once, absolutely stunning as I was seeing it from this unique vantage point for the first time as I ascended to Wolff’s office. As I looked straight up in the elevator, I noticed that its roof was mirrored. Perfect. I was able to sort a few stray fly-away hairs and give myself one final confidence-boosting lookover. My stomach shifted in my pit, but it wasn’t from nerves--the elevator was rapidly slowing to stop on the 19th floor. OK, showtime. The elevator doors slowly opened, revealing a palatial room that took my breath away. This was clearly a reception room, as it had no desk to speak of. The furnishing was all ornately French-styled chaise lounges and oversized, luxurious leather chairs. The room itself was so brightly lit from naturally sunlight thanks to having enormous glass walls on opposite ends from one another. The wall opposite to the elevator door had two gigantic doors, the sort that I expected to see at an historic bank or building in Manhattan. Once again there was marble everywhere, with plenty of warm tones among the sculptures and paintings that were meticulously and strategically placed around the room, filling it without making it feel cluttered at all.

The oversized double doors burst open and there he was, staring right at me. Everything in me wanted to stride up to him, smoothly and confidently. Instead, I stood in mid-step like a complete statue, completely lost in his gaze. He wore a well-tailored light grey suit with a stark white dress shirt and bold red tie that reminded me of the color of a Spanish matador’s cape. There was something absolutely intoxicating about him, how he was somehow even more perfect and handsome right here in front of me with the natural daylight making his blonde hair seem like a manly, regal crown. It was like he was looking not at me but INTO me, and I couldn’t blink or bear to even move! Megyn, say something! His gentle smile with its pearly white teeth broadened as I finally willed my legs to place my feet one in front of the other and try something along the lines of walking toward him. The sound of my stilettos slightly echoing in the massive room enlivened my calmness and composure. At the very least, I was going to fake it in order to make it.

“Hello there. I’m Ronald Wolff,” he confidently stated, extending his hand to shake mine. I couldn’t help but let out a slight laugh as I mirrored his smile. He doesn’t need any introduction, however polite and socially-normal the custom may be.

“Of course you are,” I replied. “I’m Megyn Kerry.” Immediately, I hoped he didn’t think I was being too glib. Press on assuredly, girl. No turning back now. “I’m here for the--”

“For the PR position. Absolutely. I’m glad you applied for it and I’m happy that you’ve chosen to join my team. We’re going to be doing some dynamic things in the coming 12 months or so. Our campaign is definitely going to be atypical. All of the career politicians are into empty rhetoric and being politically correct. Literally, I don’t have time for that. The American people don’t have time for that, the status quo. It means a lot to me to bring our nation back to the level of greatness that it once had that, frankly, it hasn’t held for quite some time.” My brain needed a moment to process what he just said. Not about what he wanted for America, but about joining his campaign team. Time to do some fact-checking, just to make sure.

“Mr. Wolff, I do agree with you on that point,” I started.

“Megyn, before you say another word, please, just call me Ron,” he kindly interjected. “Hearing Mr. Wolff from a beautiful woman just makes me feel...old. Which I’m not! You’re only as old as you feel, and I feel pretty young and well.”

“Mister -- er, Ron, sorry about that-- you absolutely look young and well to me!” The moment the words blurted out of my mouth, I felt my cheeks flush with blood. I. Cannot. Believe. I just said that. What in the world is wrong with me today?

“Well, aren’t you the flatterer? I appreciate someone who’s that forward.”

“Oh, no that’s not what I meant, I mean, it IS what I meant,” I floundered, flustered by a pitfall of my own making. “Let me start again.”

Wolff laughed as he placed his hand on the small of my back, guiding me to sit in the guest chair in front of his desk. “Don’t worry about it -- I’m just giving you a hard time. I like doing that to my associates just to keep people on their toes. Please, forgive me, actually-- you started to tell me something and I completely interrupted you. Do go on.” I sat down and gathered myself once more, determined to reestablish myself as a cooly confident young woman.

“Oh yes, I was saying that I do agree with your opinion of where America is and where it should be. What confused me was that you said that I...that I’m already on the campaign team? I hope I didn’t misunderstand you. My impression was that I needed to come here for an interview today and that you’d make your selection from among us after seeing all of the applicants.”