“What about your billions?” she asks, softer now, genuinely curious. “You didn’t earn them?”
“I inherited them,” I say with a shrug that feels too heavy to be casual. “Well. The first pile. My first company… it was my father’s seed money. My fund…” I exhale. “I was just good at moving money I already had. It’s a game, Tess. Like… a global, high-stakes, boring video game. You move assets. You leverage. You diversify.” I look down at my hands. “You don’t… make anything.”
I hold up my hands.
In the dim light, they’re a mess. Pale callouses, nails still caked with dried dough, a fresh burn on my wrist from an oven rack. Ugly. Useful.
“This,” I say quietly, “is real. I made something today. I made twelve perfect boules.”
A small, proud, goofy grin breaks across my face because I can’t help it.
“I made Snorlax.”
The sound Tess makes is a snort. Tiny. Choked-off. Unwilling. It is, undeniably, a laugh. She tries to hide it, but it’s too late.
“You’re a monumental weirdo, Leo Ashford.”
“Confirmed,” I say, smiling wider. “But you were right on my first day. You were… so right. About me. About my world.”
My smile fades. The vulnerability from cake day is back, but deeper now, shaped by ten days of shared silent work and the loneliness that waits for me whenever I stop moving.
“You called my life a docu-series.” I swallow hard. “And it is.” My voice cracks on the next part because it is the most honest thing I have said in years. “I’m… I’m so tired, Tess. I’m so lonely.”
The admission hangs in the cool evening air, stark and unadorned.
“I’m surrounded by people all the time. By… sharks like this Rex Chen guy who keeps texting me.” I stare down the quiet street. “They’re not friends. They’re assets. They’re part of the brand. ‘The Disarmingly Earnest Venture Billionaire.’” I laugh once, bitter. “That’s not… me. It’s just a costume.”
I look away because saying it out loud makes it too real.
“This dare…” I spit the word like it tastes bad, because it does. “I know it was stupid. And I know it brought this… this circus to your door.” My chest tightens. “And I will never be able to apologize enough for that.”
I meet her eyes again.
“But this last week? Even with you hating me? Even with me as a ghost in the corner?” My throat tightens. “It’s the first real, quiet, honest work I’ve done in my entire adult life.” I take a breath. “You’re the first real, honest person I’ve talked to in… I don’t even know how long.”
Tess is silent. She just watches me. Her arms aren’t crossed. Her boss mask is gone, and in its place is something raw and startling. Empathy.
And it hits me, sharp and sad, that she might be as trapped by her world as I am by mine.
“You’re not the only one who’s tired,” she says, barely a whisper.
“The tourists?” I ask gently.
“Them.” She exhales, long and weary. “But… It’s more.” Her eyes flick to me. “You said I was afraid of scaling.”
“You were,” I say quietly. “You are.”
“And you were right,” she admits, and the words sound like they cost her something.
“But why?” I ask, genuinely baffled. “Your product is… It’s magic, Tess. Your systems…” I gesture helplessly because there’s no other word. “You’re a machine. A spreadsheet-slaying, artisan-baking machine. You could have ten of these. You could be bigger than La Fantaisie.”
“And lose the soul,” she shoots back, sudden and fierce.
She starts walking again, faster, and I hurry to keep up. She points to the corner where a generic glass-and-chrome chain coffee shop glows bright, sterile, and empty.
“That’s what happens,” she says, voice thick with old anger. “That’s the prize. You get investors. You get partners. You get a Rex Chen.” Her hand trembles as she points. “And they tell you to cut corners.”
She ticks them off like she’s lived each sentence.
