chapter 2
1223 Words
**SAGE**
"You told a billionaire he's dead inside and then he offered you how much?"
Viv is sitting on our kitchen counter at two in the morning, eating cereal directly from the box, staring at me like I've grown a second head. I'm pacing our tiny apartment, the business card Adrian gave me sitting on the table between us.
"Enough to fund the community program for ten years. Maybe more."
"Sage. That's insane."
"I know."
"And you're actually considering it?"
I stop pacing and look at her. Viv knows me better than anyone. She can read my silences.
"You're going to say yes," she says quietly.
"I don't know yet."
"You're lying."
I sit down and pick up the card. Everything about Adrian Cross screams control, precision, walls built so high he can't see over them anymore.
"He looked so lost, Viv. Like he was drowning in an empty room."
"That's not your problem to fix."
"I know that too."
Roxie appears in the doorway, wrapped in a bathrobe. "Are we talking about the suit who got verbally destroyed tonight?"
"He wants to hire her," Viv says. "For a year."
Roxie's eyebrows shoot up. "For what?"
"Performances. One a day. Whatever I want."
"That's either genius or a serial killer origin story." Roxie grabs the cereal box. "What does your gut say?"
I think about that moment on stage when I looked at Adrian and saw something flicker in his eyes. Recognition. Like I'd named something he'd been avoiding for years.
"My gut says he's serious. And sad. And maybe the most interesting person I've met in years."
"Your gut also told you Jake was interesting," Viv points out.
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number: *This is James Park, attorney for Adrian Cross. Ms. Moreau, if you're considering Mr. Cross's proposal, I'd like to discuss contract terms at your earliest convenience.*
I show the screen to Viv and Roxie.
"He works fast," Roxie says.
I text back: *Tomorrow. 10 AM. Coffee shop on Fifth and Broadway.*
The response is immediate: *Confirmed. I'll bring a draft contract for your review.*
"You're doing it," Viv says. It's not a question.
"I'm hearing him out. That's different."
"No it's not." She comes to stand beside me. "Look, I get it. The money would change everything. But this guy is offering to pay you a fortune to fix him, and that's not a job, that's a recipe for disaster."
"What if I'm not fixing him? What if it's just art?"
"Art doesn't come with a contract and a lawyer."
She's right, but I'm already thinking about what I could do with that kind of money. The community center where I teach movement classes is losing funding. Tommy and six other kids would lose their only safe space.
"One year," I say quietly. "Three hundred sixty-five performances. Complete creative control."
"And then what?" Roxie asks. "You think he just walks away after that? You think you do?"
"I think I'm tired of playing it safe."
Viv sighs. "You're going to do this no matter what I say, aren't you?"
"Probably."
"Then make him sign something that protects you. And for god's sake, Sage, don't fall for him."
"I'm not going to fall for a man who needs a contract to feel things."
Roxie snorts. "Famous last words."
**********************
I meet James Park at exactly ten AM. He's impeccably dressed and looks at me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve. He slides a document across to me before I've even ordered coffee.
"Standard performance contract," he says. "Payment schedule, deliverables, termination clauses."
I scan the first page. The money is real. More than Adrian mentioned last night.
"This says no romantic involvement."
"Correct."
"Why?"
"Because Mr. Cross has a history of making poor decisions when emotions are involved. This protects both of you."
"You think he's going to fall for me."
James's expression doesn't change. "I think Mr. Cross doesn't understand the difference between paying for something and earning it. This clause ensures clarity."
I flip through more pages. "What counts as a performance?"
"That's up to you. The only requirement is that it must occur daily and must be something Mr. Cross hasn't experienced before."
"That's vague."
"Intentionally so. You have complete creative control, as requested."
I set down the contract. "What if I make him do something dangerous?"
"The contract includes liability waivers. Though I'd appreciate advance notice for anything that might require additional insurance."
"You're serious."
"Mr. Cross is serious." James leans forward slightly. "But I need to know you're serious too. This isn't a game, Ms. Moreau. My client is brilliant but emotionally stunted. If you're going to take his money, I need to know you're actually going to try to help him."
"I'm not a therapist."
"No. You're an artist. Which is apparently what he thinks he needs."
The waitress comes by. I order black coffee. James orders nothing.
"How long have you worked for him?" I ask.
"Twelve years."
"And in twelve years, what's the worst decision you've seen him make?"
James doesn't hesitate. "His marriage. He married Diane because it made sense on paper. He thought love was something you could schedule between meetings. She left him after six years because living with him was like living with a very expensive ghost."
"He told you that?"
"She told me that. At the divorce proceedings."
I take a sip of my coffee when it arrives.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I don't want you to expect something he can't give. Adrian Cross is a good man, but he's broken in ways he doesn't understand. If you take this job, you need to know what you're working with."
"And what am I working with?"
"A man who built an empire because he was terrified of being poor again. A man who works sixteen-hour days because silence makes him uncomfortable. A man who has a daughter he loves desperately but doesn't know how to talk to." James adjusts his cufflinks. "A man who hasn't cried in fifteen years and thinks that's normal."
The weight of that settles over the table.
"What if I can't help him?" I ask.
"Then at least you tried. Which is more than most people do."
I look at the contract again. Three hundred sixty-five days. Complete creative control. Enough money to save everything I've built.
"I need twenty-four hours."
"Mr. Cross hoped for an answer today."
"Mr. Cross can wait."
James almost smiles. "I'll let him know."
He stands, leaves cash for my coffee, and walks out. I sit there staring at the contract, thinking about Adrian's face last night when I called him out. That crack in his armor.
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number: “This is Adrian. James said you need time. Take it. But I meant what I said last night. You're the first person in years who's made me feel anything. That has to mean something.”
I stare at the message.
Then I text back: “Day one is Monday. 6 AM. Your office. Bring a grocery bag and an open mind."
The response comes thirty seconds later: " I'll be there.”
I drain my coffee, sign the contract, and text James a photo of my signature.
Viv is going to kill me.
- Writer
