Aksel, our resident economist, dabs his mouth and nods. “The intent is right, but the structure is flawed. We needmorestrategic capital deployment, not merelymoreof said capital deployment. Otherwise, you’re lighting euros on fire.”
Freja lets out a short laugh. “God forbid the planet burns, but the real tragedy is wasted capital.”
“We need innovation, but not at the cost of real-world practicality,” Jonathan says like he’s practicing his stump speech. “It’s not about throwing money around—it’s about anchoring policy in what actually works on the ground.”
Freja cuts in, as she does, with data, “The current subsidies have doubled solar adoption rates in southern Europe over the last two years.”
Mama sets her knife down. “I just don’t understand how people can look at the wildfires in California, the floods in Valencia, and still think this is about balance sheets. The planet is screaming.”
There’s a noisy ripple of agreement and disagreement.
“I just think climate needs a cleaner narrative. All this alarmism and crisis fatigue—it’s exhausting.” Calypso clasps Ransom’s arm like it’s where she’s getting her knowledge from, through osmosis. She’s very touchy-feely. I know Ransom likes that in private, but not in public.
But that was because you were his dirty secret, Ember. Calypso is the woman he plans to marry. See the difference?
She smiles, her lipstick still flawless, and continues, “People don’t respond to panic. They respond to beauty. We need to inspire them. You know—a visual narrative of hope.”
The silence that follows is dense. No one knows what to say. Even Mama, who is a bona fide fashionista, isn’t this vapid.
Freja raises one perfectly arched eyebrow. “So what’s the thrust here? The climate needs a rebrand?”
Calypso’s laugh is airy. “Yes, why not. There’s something to be said for a campaign that makes green policy aspirational. Chic, even.”
“It’s not a fashion spread,” Heidi snaps coldly. “For many people around the world, it’s survival. Ask some of the island nations how they’re looking for a new home because theirs is going to be under water soon.”
Aksel waves a finger, shaking his head. “Public perception does matter. But policy only works when itdrives real systemic change—green energy grids, public transportation, food systems—rather than relying on carbon offsets and photo ops.”
“I read a paper recently about designing environmental funding models that focus on co-benefits—clean energy, yes, but also job creation, public health improvements.” Ransom refills Calypso’s glass of wine. “If you can show that green investment improves people’s day-to-day lives, you don’t have to sell them an aesthetic.”
Before I can stop myself, I say quietly, “The problem isn’t the aesthetics. It’s that environmental reform is treated like a lifestyle choice—something ornamental—when it should be embedded into the core economic strategy.”
I usually keep out of such discussions, and I know I stepped into it because Ransom is here.
I want his attention. I want to impress him.
I’m like a dumb teenager who’s wearing a provocative outfit so the boy she has a crush on, the boy who’s dating the hot girl, will look at her.
But like they say—in for a penny, in for an event horizon. No turning back now.
“At my lab, we study gravitational effects of invisible forces—things you can’t see, but that warp entire systems around them. Climate is the same. It’s not a surface issue. It’s structural. And if we keep reacting to it like it’s just a messaging issue, we’ll lose the very framework we live inside.”
There’s a pause. Even the fireplace seems to be still.
Ransom breaks the silence. “That’s a brilliant analogy.”
See, sometimes the boy with the hot girldoesnotice the nerdy girl. And what happens when that happens? Hot girl unsheathes her claws.
Predictably, Calypso chirps, “That’s the charm of geeky scientists. Always so good with metaphors.”
Wow, she managed to slap me and compliment me all at the same time. Well, sheisan editor-at-large forHarper’s Bazaar. She must have mad skills when it comes to the turn of a phrase.
I lower my gaze to the plate in front of me. The cheese and wine have both gone warm, lost their flavor.
“Wait, wait, wait.” Papa raises his hand. “I’m tired of everything being about giving handouts to save this, that, and the other.”
“That’s such a neo-liberalist thing to say,” Mama snaps.
“No, that’s a realist thing to say,” Papa counters coolly. “I’m not against progress. I’m against pouring money into black holes of policy with no accountability and no measurable return. Hope is not a fiscal strategy.”
