“So that justifiespoisoningvillages?” I’m yelling now, completely past caring about decorum or gratitude or the fact that this man saved my life less than twenty-four hours ago. “Profits over people? Is that your defense?”
“It’s not that simple--”
“It literallyisthat simple.” I clench my hands, trying to stop them from shaking. “You knew. Your engineers told you. And you did it anyway because stopping would have cost money.”
The mycorrhizal networks I study exist because different organisms support each other. They share resources. Protect each other. Create systems where everyone benefits.
His business model is the exact opposite.
Extract.
Exploit.
Leavedestructionbehind.
And I’ve been sleeping in his house. Wearing his clothes. Letting him wash my hair and feed me soup and hold my hand.
“I didn’t know who you were last night,” I continue, my face burning. “I thought you were just some rich asshole. Not THE rich asshole personally responsible for environmental crimes in my parents’ homeland.”
“Alleged crimes,” he corrects again, and that stupid word makes me want to throw something.
“Stop sayingalleged. We both know it happened. The documents prove it.”
“Do you always favor circular arguments?” he asks. Before I can answer, he adds: “Those documents were stolen by the way. Leaked by someone with an agenda.”
“An agenda called telling the truth?”
His jaw clenches. “You don’t know anything about running a company. About the impossible choices you have to make. About balancing environmental concerns with providing materials the world needs. About shareholders and--”
“I know you chose wrong,” I interrupt. “I know you prioritized profit over people’s lives. I know my grandmother drinks bottled water now because your company made the groundwater toxic.”
“I employ fifteen thousand people globally, many in Brazil, and--”
“And you’ve poisoned how many?” I cut him off. “What’s the acceptable ratio for you? How many sick villagers per job created?”
He doesn’t answer that.
Of course he doesn’t.
The silence stretches. The fire crackles. Outside, the storm continues to bury us deeper in snow.
I’m trapped here.
In this house.
With this man.
The man who represents everything I’ve dedicated my life to fighting.
The man whose hands were gentle in my hair last night.
God, I’m such an idiot.
“I want to leave.” My voice comes out small despite the anger still coursing through me.
“You can’t.” He gestures at the windows. “Roads are impassable. Even if we could get you to a vehicle, you’d never make it to the main road.”
“Then get me out by helicopter.”
