He exhales slowly. “Because I couldn’t stop wondering. Because I’ve spent my entire life surrounded by people whose choices make sense inside the world I know. And you were doing something I didn’t understand at all. That’s not an excuse. It’s just the truth.”
You study him.
Men with power usually lie prettily. They wrap ugly impulses in smoother language until the whole thing smells expensive. There is none of that here. Just a blunt admission that sounds almost embarrassingly honest.
He continues before you can answer. “I also didn’t bring you here to humiliate you or to offer charity disguised as guilt. I need you to know that.”
At that, something hot flares in your chest. “Good,” you say. “Because I’m not taking charity.”
His gaze sharpens, but not with offense. More like recognition.
“I thought you might say that.” He reaches for a folder on the table and slides it toward you. “This is not charity.”
You do not move.
“What is it?”
“A proposal.” He pauses. “And possibly a selfish one.”
