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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 fromThe New York Timesin favor of a move back to the Midwest. I planned to set up a monetized online newsletter that showcased the kind of writingIwanted 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 wasrealjournalism.
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 theNYTfood 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 toAmerican Profileopted for the free version, but a few more than ten percent bothered to kick me a few bucks each month on a recurring payment.
