The simple admission caught me off guard, piercing through the armor of indifference I’d been trying to maintain. I crossed my arms, suddenly feeling exposed despite being fully clothed.
“I saw the video,” I said abruptly. “From the press conference last week.”
“You did?”
“It’s kind of everywhere. Hard to miss when someone tells Arthur Gable to fuck his own family name on live internet feeds.” I forced a casual shrug. “Nice delivery, by the way. Very dramatic. The news outlets had to censor half of it.”
“It wasn’t my finest moment,” he admitted. “Or maybe it was. I’m still deciding.”
“Why are you here?”
He took a deep breath. “I came to give you something. Well, several things, actually.” He gestured to the couch. “Can we sit?”
“It might be radioactive.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
I shrugged, clearing more space on the couch while he carefully set his laptop bag on the coffee table. We sat at opposite ends, as far apart as the furniture allowed. I was too aware of him—his scent (different now, less expensive cologne, more... him), his presence, the way he seemed to take up all the oxygen in the room without even trying.
“First,” he began, “I want to say I’m not here to ask for forgiveness. I don’t deserve that, and I know it. I’m here because you deserve to have what’s rightfully yours.”
He opened the bag and pulled out a sleek laptop, setting it on the table between us. Next came the legal envelope, which he placed beside it.
“You saw that I publicly confessed to stealing your app concept,” he said, his voice steady. “But a public apology isn’t enough. Not nearly enough.”
He opened the laptop and turned it toward me. On the screen was what appeared to be a website homepage, the banner reading “The Mari Landry Innovation Project.”
“What is this?” I asked, leaning forward despite myself.
“It’s a comprehensive documentation of every concept of yours that I stole,” he explained. “Every idea, every design element, every innovation—all credited to you, with timestamps, documentation, and public retractions of my previous claims.”
I stared at the screen, then at him, confusion washing over me. “You... made a website about stealing my ideas?”
“I made a website to ensure you get proper credit,” he corrected. “It’s been shared with every major publication in the wedding industry. I’ve personally contacted every journalist who interviewed me about the ‘innovative digital platform’ and issued retractions, directing them to you instead.”
My brain struggled to process this information. “Why would you do that?”
“Because it’s right. Because they’re your ideas. Because you deserve recognition.” He opened the legal envelope and slid out a stack of papers. “But that’s just the beginning.”
I took the papers he offered, scanning the first page. My eyes widened as I realized what I was looking at.
“These are client contracts. Your clients.”
“Former clients,” he said. “I’ve referred all of my major accounts to Knot Your Average Wedding. With specific recommendations that they work with you directly.”
My head was spinning. “You gave away your clients?”
“I officially sold my business the day before the press conference, actually. Perfect Day Planning no longer exists.” His tone was matter-of-fact, as if he were discussing the weather rather than the dismantling of his career. “And I used the proceeds for this.”
He tapped a key on the laptop, and the screen changed to reveal what was unmistakably my app—not just a concept or a mockup, but a fully designed, apparently functional application with my original interface ideas and workflow concepts.
“What...” My voice failed me. I cleared my throat and tried again. “What exactly am I looking at?”
“Your app. A working prototype, developed according to your original vision.” He pulled out a USB drive and placed it beside the laptop. “With the help of some very talented developers.”
“Developers you hired?” I asked, my voice rising in disbelief.
“Yes. Well, technically, Burkhardt hired them. He has better connections in the tech world than I do.”
