I left aisles that afternoon without going upstairs to my office. The old version of me would have gone straight there, called an executive meeting rewritten the next 90 days, and worked until midnight proving I was back. Instead, I told the chief operating officer to stabilize operations and schedule the leadership meeting for the next morning. Then I drove to Belleview. Malachi was sitting on the front steps when I pulled up.
He wore jeans and a gray Henley, and for a strange second, I remembered the first night in his car when I had looked at him and seen only a quiet man offering shelter from the rain. He stood as I approached. I got it back, I said. I know. Nadia messaged you one line.
I looked at him. Did you call anyone? No. No shareholders? None. No board members?
Numb. Nothing. You asked me to stop. I had received apologies before. Most were arguments wearing softer clothes.
That sentence was different. It was evidence. I sat on the step beside him. I need the real answer now. To what?
Why you did not tell me who you were? He looked toward the street. After Aaliyah died, I became good at recognizing when someone knew what I was worth before they knew me. Some wanted access, some wanted advice, some wanted proximity to the fund. Eventually, I stopped expecting to be seen before the money.
Then you got into my car and knew none of it. You argued with me, disagreed with me, and talked to me like I was just a man whose coffee was too strong. It is too strong. He almost smiled. I knew I should tell you.
I kept thinking the next day would be better. Then I started caring about what would change. He turned toward me. I was not protecting you, Genevieve. I was protecting what it felt like to be known by you before you knew what I had.
There it was. No justification, no attempt to turn fear into virtue. That does not make what you did okay. I know you took away my ability to decide whether it changed anything. I know.