“I’ll build up the fire.”
By the time the chicken is ready, full darkness has fallen outside. The blizzard continues its assault on the windows, but in here the fire makes everything feel almost normal.
Almost.
She lights the gas range with the same easy competence as at lunch, seasons the chicken with herbs from Vin’s collection, and gets it roasting in a pan. The smell fills the great room, rich and savory and making my mouth water.
When it’s done, she carves it efficiently and we eat at the coffee table by the fire. The meat is perfectly cooked, tender and juicy despite being frozen earlier.
“Merry Christmas,” she says, raising a forkful of chicken like a toast. “Not exactly a traditional feast. No turkey, no stuffing, no cranberry sauce. Just chicken roasted on a gas range by firelight in a blizzard.” She pauses. “Actually, that sounds kind of badass when I say it out loud.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Beats the catered affairs I usually sit through. Ten courses I don’t want while making small talk with people I can’t stand.”
“Oh, youpoorbillionaire,” she teases, but there’s warmth in it now instead of bite. “Sufferingthrough your gourmet Christmas dinners like a champ.”
“You joke, but this is better.” And I mean it. “This is... real.”
Her expression softens. “Yeah. I suppose... I suppose it kind of is.”
We eat in comfortable silence. Even though the storm is howling outside, for a moment, it almost feels like we’re just twopeople sharing a meal instead of a billionaire and the woman who hates what he represents.
“I miss them,” she says suddenly, setting down her fork. “My friends. My parents. My advisor. All of whom are probably having a meltdown thinking I’m dead in a snowdrift somewhere.”
“We’ll get communications back soon.” I’m making promises I can’t guarantee again. “The storm has to break eventually.”
She nods, then devours a forkful of chicken.
“How did your parents die?” she asks suddenly.
The question catches me off guard.
I could deflect. Could give some vague non-answer and change the subject.
Instead I find myself saying, “Mother first. Cancer. I was fifteen. Ovarian. She fought it for two years. Every treatment, every experimental drug. Father threw money at it like that would make a difference. Hired the best oncologists in the world. Flew her to clinics in Switzerland, Germany, wherever they promised hope. He couldn’t comprehend why his money wasn’t enough. Why he couldn’t just buy her survival. It was the worst two years of my life.”
She’s quiet, just listening.
“When she died on Christmas morning, something in him died too. He became... harder. More focused on the company. Like if he couldn’t save her, he’d at least build something that would last. An empire no disease could touch.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “He died thirteen years later. Heart attack at his desk on Christmas fucking eve. Working on quarterly projections. Worked himself to death, basically. I was twenty-eight, barely starting to understand what running the company actually meant, and suddenly it was all mine. The struggling business. The debt. The pressure to prove I wasn’t going to let his life’s work collapse.”
“And you proved it,” she says. “You built an empire from that struggling company.”
“Yeah. I did.” I meet her eyes. “But somewhere along the way, I became exactly like him. All extraction, no connection. Money as the solution to every problem. People as resources. I told myself I was honoring his legacy, but really I was just... repeating his mistakes.”
Sorrel is quiet for a moment. When she speaks, her voice is gentle. “It’s true, isn’t it? Money isn’t enough for most things that matter.”
No shit.
Eight billion in assets and I’m sitting here by a fire, stuck with a woman who hates what I represent, realizing that every choice I made to build that wealth was probably wrong.
“My parents work so hard,” she says softly. “Like your used to. Dad does landscaping. Mom teaches elementary school. They immigrated from Brazil when I was five. Gave up everything for opportunities here. They wanted me to be a doctor or lawyer. And so here I go and dedicate my life to cleaning up messes made by mining companies, because we all know there’s a ton of money inthat, right?”
I don’t answer, just eat my chicken. I’m still feeling guilty as hell.
“They must be proud of you,” I finally offer. “The PhD program. The research. So what if it doesn’t rake in money? You’re making adifference.”
“Am I?” She pulls the hoodie tighter around herself. “I don’t know. And I certainly hope they’re proud of me.”
I straighten. “Look, I’m telling you... your research matters. Even if people like me are the reason it’s necessary.”
