He nods immediately. No argument. “Ok.”
“And I want you away from my decisions,” I add, sharper. “Forever. You don’t get to be in the room where my choices happen unless I invite you.”
“Yes,” he says, voice soft. “Yes. Agreed.”
“Ok,” I say finally. “Talk.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath since he texted me.
He reaches into his hoodie pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. Not a leather folder. Not a pitch deck. Not a glossy packet.
Just paper. Creased. Plain. Human.
He holds it out. Not pushing it into my hands. Just offering.
I don’t take it immediately. “What is that?”
“It’s a summary,” he says. “One page. No brand language. No partners. No logos.” His mouth tightens. “I asked Julian to help me remove any bullshit.”
The mention of Julian makes me want to roll my eyes, but I’m too busy noticing that he said remove. Not enhance. Not spin.
I take the paper. It’s handwritten in parts and typed in others. There are messy margins. Notes. Cross-outs. It looks like someone fought with it.
My stomach twists again.
At the top, it says:
TESS’S APPRENTICESHIP PROGRAM
SUPPORT STRUCTURE
NO STRINGS
I glance up sharply.
He meets my gaze. “I’m not asking you to trust the title,” he says quickly. “I’m asking you to read it and tell me what you hate.”
I look back down. My eyes scan the page. It’s not what I expected.
It outlines a foundation that is independent, legally separate, and governed by a board that includes community partners, a youth center representative, a labor lawyer, an accountant, and a baker not connected to Sunrise & Salt. It includes terms like non-revocable funding, restricted endowment, and no discretionary withdrawals by the donor.
Donor. Not owner. Not a partner.
The plan outlines that the bakery funds the apprenticeship on its own, like I wanted, through a dedicated apprentice line item in the budget, supported by grants and revenue.
The foundation’s role isn’t to fund the bakery. It’s to fund the apprentices directly, so the bakery doesn’t have to carry the entire social safety net on croissant margins.
It’s smart.
It’s terrifying.
I look up slowly. “This is still money.”
“Yes,” he says immediately. “It is. That part doesn’t go away.”
“And you,” I say, voice clipped, “are still a billionaire.”
He doesn’t flinch. “Yes.”
