Page 30 of Rich Forever: Zo & Remy

“Mr. Black. My pleasure. Thank you for your interest in partnering with us, and thank you for your generous donation,” I smiled as I motioned for him to have a seat in front of me, and I did the same.

“It’s no issue. I love what you do around here,” He smiled back as he slowly took a seat and brought his leg across his knee to cross them.

The Second Chance CEO has made one of the largest donations, aside from my family and the JMF, since I started this organization. Of course, we had some major donors. None of them, though, came remotely close to the eight-figure donation they had given. I received several emails from them. They wanted to partner with us on an event, and I was open to it. From what I read on their website, their mission is to help survivors of traumatic events and violence. Now, being in his presence, I could tell that the mission was something personal to Mr. Black.

Surprisingly, we had a decent conversation. Once you got past his exterior, he was such a nice guy. He was a bit slow to speak, but once he did, he was very witty. By the time it ended, we were discussing a partnership, and he had also invited me to a family carnival he was having in the near future.

“Please, email me the details, Mr. Black. I would love for myself and my staff to attend,” I smiled as we stood to shake hands again to end the meeting.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Remy,” he said as he grabbed my hand and then placed the other on top of it. I looked down at it and back at him. Something about his touch made me uneasy. I had shaken hands with many of the other donors and had never reacted that way.

Remy, you’re being immature. I scolded myself mentally. Thinking that I might need to reevaluate my work if I couldn’t get past his appearance. He smiled politely and made his way toward the door. I jogged around my desk and in front of him to open it. I didn’t want to insult him by asking if he needed me to guide him out, but I wanted to so badly. I just didn’t know if it would be offensive.

“Take care, Mr. Black,” I said as I opened the door for him, waited until he stepped out, then shut it behind him. Afterward, I walked back to my computer to get my own affairs back in order.

I sighed as I sat, realizing that I should go ahead and address my emails. I went through each of them from oldest to newest and responded to them. Once I was done, my mind drifted back to Douglas Black.

It wasn’t even anything he said; it was the way his presence settled over me and made me uncomfortable. It was heavy, thick, and hard to ignore.

I shook it off and leaned back in my chair. I told myself that my reaction to him was just unprofessional and dramatic. The Mafia had a way of reshaping your senses, making your body react before your brain could catch up. Maybe I was having one of those moments.

I’d sat with hundreds of women who had been victims of crimes with similar scarring and had never had this reaction.

I opened my browser, typed in "Second Chance Foundation," and clicked their site again, this time more slowly, paying attention to details I'd skimmed over when I assumed it was just another organization.

Their homepage had a ton of survivors: gunshot victims, burn victims, domestic violence survivors, trauma survivors. Big bold letters read: Rebuilding Life After the Unthinkable.

I clicked the “About Us” tab.

Second Chance was founded in 2022 after a near-fatal accident left its founder, Douglas Black, with significant injuries. During his lengthy recovery, he vowed to assist others who had experienced life-altering trauma.

I was confused by the year. That would have meant that he had only been running the foundation for three years, which was one less than me.

Yet their impact numbers didn’t match their years of service. They operated like an organization with thirty or forty years of connections and funding. They had centers in four states and partnerships nationwide.

“How?” I mumbled. I wasn’t hating, but I knew that it took decades to build this type of rapport.

I clicked through their programs, and they offered so much. Crisis housing, medical grants, therapy stipends, and vocational training. It was impressive, honestly. That part, I had no issue acknowledging. Their work was legit, and their donations were supported.

I kept reading the bio to see if it would give details of the accident. There was a very brief description. But it never went into depth.

A nearly fatal accident that resulted in severe head trauma, loss of vision in one eye, and significant respiratory complications.

That made sense. His injuries matched the description. By this time, I was in full detective mode. I clicked through the carousel of photos. There was one there before the accident.

He looked younger, fuller, and healthier. But that wasn’t the issue. The photo didn’t really look like him.

People change, especially after an accident, Remy, I told myself.

Recovery changes you. Pain changes you. Some people come out of trauma lighter. Some come out darker.

I kept reading. His resume was actually impressive for someone in this space. He had been a keynote speaker and received many awards for his work. Then I clicked his personal bio again and scrolled to the bottom. Born in 1973 and raised in the Bronx, New York.

He supposedly grew up in an underserved area. Yet there were no details about his family. None about his schooling. Nothing about his life before the accident that “inspired” him.

For a man who’d experienced something life-shattering enough to change his purpose, he shared almost nothing personal aside from the fact that it was an accident. Not even the type of accident that it was.

I clicked off the site and opened another tab to look for complete interviews.