Chapter 30 #3
“It’s about time,” I say, the answer spilling out of my mouth before it’s even in my brain.
“Since your time is so valuable, yes, you could spend it on getting more money. Sure. Whatever. Make donations that get people off your back. But if I had that much time? I’d spend it dismantling the systems that—that fuck everyone over to begin with.
If your investments are—are sending kids into cobalt mines, or cramming people into sweat shops, they don’t need your dollar, they need to not die.
Half the point of ORC would be obviated if we just had fucking universal basic income and healthcare.
Whatever money you billionaires donate to charity, you spend more on lobbies and political campaigns that squeeze normal people into tighter and tighter boxes, that strip rights and public services.
You would still be a billionaire if you fucking paid your share of taxes! ”
I’m breathing hard. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. I brace for Morgan to scold me.
“You’re right,” she says. “And Artemis wouldn’t be nearly the company it is without the privatized state of the health care system.”
“There are other ways,” I insist.
“There are. And making a lasting impact with them is going to take time, and money, and resources.”
“Which you have.”
“Which I have.” Her tone is even, curious. Like I’m missing something.
I blink. “The deal with the state?”
“It’s a stepping stone.”
“You said before that others wouldn’t invest the time there…”
“Correct.”
“But you’re willing to risk losing the time.”
“Yes.”
“Because you… believe in the cause? Or believe in the profits?”
“Two things can be true.”
My head hurts. I brace my elbows against the table. I don’t even know why I care so much about this, why it seems so important. Some insane dream that I can get through to a billionaire, I guess.
“Jamie…” Morgan says, and there’s a softness in her voice.
I look up, and I don’t know why I’m so hopeful, but I am.
“You’re a very honest person,” she continues. “So, I’m going to be honest with you.”
I nod, can’t quite swallow.
“These things don’t make me feel guilty.
They don’t really bother me. But I understand why they bother you.
I am… not a good person. But I strive to be…
less destructive than my peers. And the only way that’s possible is to surround myself with people who bust my balls about it.
Who keep me from getting too… out of touch. ”
“That’s… that’s unusual, isn’t it?”
Morgan shrugs. “My grand accomplishment is opening my fucking door and trusting the people I hired. Like I said, the bar is subterranean.”
“You are different from your peers, though,” I say emphatically.
“And why is that?”
“Your time is actually valuable. You do make good decisions for the company. You… you don’t have the luxury of being vapid.
People don’t make cults of personality around powerful women like they do around rich white guys.
They scheme to tear them down at every turn.
If you weren’t actually a genius… you’d have ended up like, I don’t know, that blood testing scam lady. ”
“That’s only part true,” Morgan says quietly. “It’s not hard to make money when you’re already rich. You balk at the things I spend money on—I think you’d faint at what people give me for free.”
“That is… deeply ironic.” Like all the water bottles. Except water bottles are air to Morgan, and her version of water bottles is… I don’t know, I’ll have to consult Eileen for the analogy.
“It is,” she says with a wry smile. “Just like when I said before that I’m not afraid of anything.
That’s also only part true. I’m not afraid as long as I’m in control.
Money is power. Money is control. I don’t see myself relinquishing a cent of that while I’m alive.
It’s just not how I’m wired. I need to be able to protect myself. Protect the people I care about.”
“Are you trying to tell me you’re never going to change?” I ask with a teasing lilt, trying to bring some levity back into the conversation. But I appreciate Morgan’s honesty more than I can articulate.
“I’m saying you can try. But don’t get your hopes up. And be careful I don’t seduce you first.”
My stomach twists. I swallow hard. She means with the lifestyle, right? “I mean, they do say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. If more women just became billionaires and took men out to Michelin-star restaurants, they wouldn’t be so single.” Wait, fuck, am I flirting?
Morgan chuckles. “Ah, you figured out my secret.” A beat later, she asks, “Do you identify as a man?”
“Uh… kind of…” I glance towards the ocean, fidgeting with the edge of the tablecloth. “Sort of a… boy… demi-boy… kind of… situation…” Oh god, I’m rambling. Why am I giving the long answer? Why not just a ‘yeah’ and a shrug?
“Duly noted,” Morgan says, and that’s the end of that, like she just asked if I like chocolate or not.
Dessert arrives, and it’s fresh fruit tarts with blueberries, strawberries, and citrus slices arranged into little swans perched atop miniature tart shells of custard.
“It’s almost too cute to eat…” I murmur.
“I know the feeling,” Morgan says with a purr, and she’s looking at me. God, why is she looking at me?
I manage to take a bite of the tart without making a mess of it, but Morgan pops hers in whole.
It’s divine. Smooth, creamy custard, not too sweet, and the tart shell is caramelized with a slight crunch that sets off the cream.
And the fruit—I now no longer believe you can say you know what a fruit tastes like until you’ve had it outside of the US. Fuck, it’s incredible. Bright and fresh and just tart enough to set off the cream and sugar notes.
After the last bite, I’m reluctant to take a sip of my wine and lose the lingering floral notes, but eventually my thirst wins out.
“It’s criminal that you’re just… used to this,” I say.
“Regrettably, it’s table stakes in my world. Nothing tips your hand faster than awe and wonder.”
I wince. “Guess my hand’s all over the place, then.”
“I like that,” Morgan says quietly.
God, I’m reading into every little thing. My cheeks flush with heat.
Mercifully, Morgan continues, “Do you really think the waiters are usually this nice?”
I blink. Most of the waiters at the restaurants we’ve been to have been warm, engaged, understanding. Even when I’ve asked really stupid questions about the menu.
“They aren’t?” I say.
“Well, more so that the customers usually aren’t so nice. You’re actually enjoying your food. You’re delighted, appreciative. Don’t you think it’s soul-crushing serving people like me all the time?”
I choke out a laugh. I never thought I’d hear Morgan say something remotely self-depreciating. “I, uh… I guess so.”
“Never change,” Morgan says softly, and my heart thunders.