His offer hung in the vast, sterile silence of the hall. Seventy percent. Co-founder. He was trying to transact his way out of an execution, still believing the world operated on the same flawed logic that had brought him to this point: that everything, including my history and my intellect, was a commodity he could price and purchase. He looked at me with the desperate eyes of a man trying to buy back a life that had already been foreclosed upon.
“We can fix this,” he repeated, the words a fragile mantra against the encroaching ruin. He took a hesitant step forward. “Think about it, Maya. The dream. NovaTech. It was always *our* baby. We can rebuild it. Better. Stronger. Just you and me, like in the beginning.”
*Like in the beginning.* The phrase was a key trying to unlock a door I had
