“I asked her for ten minutes,” I say. “No bakery. Public place. The Saturday market.”
“And?” Zane asks.
“And she hasn’t answered.”
Julian nods slowly. “Ok. That means you prepare for both outcomes.”
“If she doesn’t show,” Zane says, “you leave. No hovering. No waiting around like a kicked puppy.”
“I know.”
Julian points at me. “Say it.”
“I will leave.”
“Good.” Zane squints. “And no going live.”
“I’m not…”
“No accidental lives,” Zane says. “No, someone else filmed it. No, I forgot.”
“I won’t.”
Julian relaxes a fraction. “Good. Now eat.”
The takeout they ordered arrives. Real food. Warm. Greasy. Alive.
We sit on the floor because Julian declares my furniture “emotionally hostile.” I eat because my body is shaking slightly, and that seems like a bad sign.
Halfway through, I say, “I’ve been thinking about her apprenticeship program.”
Julian pauses mid-bite. Zane looks up.
“Careful,” Julian says.
“I know,” I say quickly. “Not ownership. Not control.”
Zane studies me. “Then what?”
I take a breath. “A foundation. Independent. Board-governed. Money, I can’t pull back. No branding. No press.”
Julian stares. “You want to lock yourself out of your own money.”
“Yes.”
Zane whistles. “That’s… growth.”
Julian still looks skeptical. “And what do you get?”
“Nothing,” I say.
Silence.
Julian leans back. “Ok. That’s real.”
Zane nods. “But you can’t sell it like a martyr.”
“I know.”
