Chapter Sixteen
827 Words
Amelia hadn’t been nervous for an interview in years.
She had been nervous for funerals.
For overdue bills.
For Lucas’ tuition.
For investor emails.
But not for coffee.
And yet—
She had changed outfits three times.
Margaret watched from the doorway.
“It’s coffee.”
“I know.”
“You look like you’re attending the Met Gala.”
“I know.”
Margaret smirked.
“You like him.”
Amelia almost choked.
“What?”
“No.”
“I don’t even know him.”
Margaret shrugged.
“Okay.”
“Then you like the possibility.”
Amelia sighed.
“I like options.”
Margaret nodded.
“That’s better.”
Daniel Foster was already seated when Amelia arrived.
He stood immediately.
Tall.
Mid-thirties.
Clean-shaven.
Navy suit.
Expensive watch.
Easy smile.
Confident.
Not intimidating.
Inviting.
The kind of man people trusted quickly.
And that worried Amelia.
“Amelia Hart.”
He extended his hand.
“I’ve been looking forward to this.”
She shook it.
“Thank you for meeting me.”
He smiled.
“Thank you for building something worth meeting for.”
She sat down.
“So.”
“You’ve seen TaskFlow.”
“I have.”
“You liked it.”
“I loved it.”
“You want to buy it.”
Daniel laughed.
“I want to talk.”
“Investors don’t send six emails talking.”
“Fair.”
He leaned back.
“Can I tell you what I think?”
She nodded.
“I think you’re brilliant.”
“I think you’re exhausted.”
“I think you’ve been carrying the weight of two lives.”
“And I think you’re trying to prove something to dead people.”
Her smile disappeared.
Daniel softened.
“I’m sorry.”
“That sounded harsh.”
“But founders do it all the time.”
“We build.”
“We hustle.”
“We sacrifice.”
“Because we’re trying to make someone proud.”
She swallowed.
“My father.”
Daniel nodded.
“I figured.”
“He sounds like a good man.”
“He was.”
“So tell me.”
“What did he want?”
She smiled softly.
“He wanted me to solve problems.”
“And did you?”
She thought about it.
TaskFlow.
Lucas.
Promises.
Survival.
“Yes.”
“I think I did.”
Daniel smiled.
“Then maybe your job is done.”
Silence.
Amelia looked down.
“No.”
“It isn’t.”
“I haven’t launched.”
“I haven’t scaled.”
“I haven’t hired.”
“I haven’t built the company.”
Daniel smiled.
“Exactly.”
“And maybe you don’t need to.”
“What?”
“Maybe someone else can.”
He pulled out his tablet.
Numbers appeared.
Projected growth.
Potential buyers.
Estimated valuation.
User forecasts.
Revenue possibilities.
Then—
One number.
$2,500,000
Amelia stopped breathing.
“What is that?”
Daniel folded his hands.
“My opening offer.”
“For TaskFlow.”
Silence.
She blinked.
Twice.
Three times.
Two and a half million dollars.
Lucas’ MIT tuition.
Paid.
Columbia.
Paid.
Apartment.
Paid.
Sunday dinners.
Paid.
Freedom.
Paid.
Tears burned her eyes.
Daniel noticed.
“Amelia.”
“You’ve already won.”
“You don’t need to suffer anymore.”
“You’ve earned rest.”
Her voice cracked.
“And if I say no?”
Daniel smiled.
“I’ll increase my offer.”
She laughed.
Despite herself.
“You’re persistent.”
“I invest in founders.”
“I know what fear looks like.”
“And yours isn’t fear of failure.”
“It’s fear of letting go.”
She stared at her coffee.
Maybe he was right.
Maybe she was tired.
Maybe she had already proven enough.
Maybe—
Maybe this was freedom.
Daniel stood.
“Take your time.”
“I’ll give you forty-eight hours.”
“And Amelia?”
“Yes?”
“If you say yes…”
“You’ll never have to clean another house again.”
He left.
Amelia sat there.
Alone.
Frozen.
Two and a half million dollars.
More money than she’d ever imagined.
Enough money to buy back every dream she thought she’d lost.
Her phone buzzed.
Lucas.
How did it go?
She typed slowly.
He offered me $2.5 million.
Three dots appeared.
Vanished
Appeared again
Then—
Sell it.
She stared at the message.
Sell it.
Her brother wanted freedom.
Daniel wanted TaskFlow.
Part of her wanted peace.
But another part—
The little girl eating Pancake Sunday breakfast—
Still wanted to build.
Still wanted Forbes.
Still wanted Times Square.
Still wanted her father to be right.
Builders chase solutions.
Solutions attract wealth.
As Amelia stepped out of the café—
She looked up.
And froze.
Across the street.
Leaning against his black car.
Hands in his pockets.
Expression unreadable.
Ethan Blackwood.
Waiting.
Not to stop her.
Not to convince her.
Simply waiting.
- Writer
