Chapter 16
California
I almost didn’t wear my lucky dress. The night before, I’d hung it on the closet door in my too-small Venice apartment, but the morning of Beau’s meeting at Redwood, my first thought was, Beau’s already seen it.
And my second thought was how childish and unwelcome the first thought had been.
The Chanel shift had earned its reputation, getting me through my first-ever investor pitch and countless others. The part of me that unspooled when I was around Beau, the part that wanted to dress up for him, needed to pipe down.
This isn’t middle school, Este. Or some confab to discuss whether he like-likes you.
This was business. After the party in Benedict Canyon, Beau finally agreed to meet with Simon, and if Simon could make inroads toward acquiring Beau’s company, I’d get another shot at impressing Beau with my accessories.
Or maybe I’ll just get over it, because I already have a bedfellow in my boss and a very important career to think about.
So I wore the dress.
I told myself I didn’t care how Beau Walker sometimes made me feel, because “sometimes” was temporary. And this was dealmaking. Permanent and life-changing.
Then I walked straight through the door of the glass-walled conference room where Simon already had the stage set—water carafes and breakfast catering assembled on the banquette, legal pads squared at every seat of the wide meeting table.
Simon looked ready for war.
“Morning,” I said, setting up my laptop near the AV equipment so I could plug it in when the time came.
After years of working together, Simon and I knew the dance steps to meetings like this by heart.
I’d drive the slides, painting the picture of how Redwood’s scale and resources could make Beau’s AI-powered advanced pattern recognition a global product.
And Simon would run the talking points with his signature charm—offering grand promises, glossy metaphors, and a steady grin—polishing my data into destiny.
From the hallway, I could see people orbiting the room, as if they could sense something big was about to happen.
But ever oblivious, James decided he’d rather not wait to find out. He darkened the conference room doorway like he was on the hunt for intel.
“You guys must have a top-tier catering order in here or something,” he joked.
“Beau Walker is on his way over,” I said, hoping James would take the hint and make himself scarce.
But that was an optimistic thought, because as far as I could tell, James lived a hintless existence.
“Oh, shit.” James smirked and leaned against the doorframe. “Is he looking for a buyer? I have a connection with—”
“James,” I said, more sharply this time, “unless you’re here to do an AV sound check, maybe we’ll catch up with you after?”
Simon didn’t look up from his notes. “We’ll save you a bagel.”
That finally did it. With a mock salute, James shoved off, crossing with someone I couldn’t see a few steps past the doorway.
That’s when Beau Walker stepped into the room, escorted by Emily from the front desk. He was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a boyish grin that had no business waltzing into a Redwood acquisition meeting.
“Hey, Este,” he said.
I looked past him as Emily made her exit, waiting for the suited convoy that I would have expected to be in tow. But nobody followed. No entourage. No assistant juggling iced lattes. Not even a blazer. Only him.
Beau glanced at the polished conference table, the Sharpies lined up like soldiers, and then to me.
I rose, stepping toward him, but Simon beat me there. And the sound of their hands clapping together in a handshake rang off the glass wall like a starting gun.
“Good to see you again.” Simon gestured toward the leather chairs. “Glad you could make the time, Beau. Are we waiting on anyone? Your team?”
Usually these early conversations started with a presentation from some group of investors or board members. But Beau gave a half shrug, dropping into the seat across from us.
“There’s no team. No investors. No board.” He looked Simon dead in the eye. “I built the company myself. I own it outright. I hope that’s okay.”
It was more than okay. And the sly smile on Beau’s face telegraphed that he knew it. He was holding the power and control for InfoSynth in the palm of his hand.
Simon slowed as he lowered into his chair. “That’s unusual.”
“Maybe,” Beau said. “I never could get comfortable with the idea of putting my fate in someone else’s hands. It wasn’t always easy, but I wanted to build something where I maintained autonomy around decisions.”
The line hit harder than it should have. No layers. No approvals. No safety net.
To anyone else, Simon’s posture would have looked unchanged. But I knew him. Knew that the way he wiped at the tip of his nose—only once—with his pointer finger meant he was recalibrating. This entire billion-dollar dance could turn on a shrug of Beau’s shoulders.
And I hated the little surge of heat that stirred in my chest with this revelation.
As I sat down and offered Beau the cables to connect his laptop, I tried to ignore the spark of attraction that traveled up my arm as our fingers brushed. If I didn’t know better, I would say he felt it, too.
“My slides are in a Google Drive,” he said, his voice lower than I remembered. “What’s the Wi-Fi password?”
As I scribbled down the guest network details and passed him a slip of paper, I could feel Simon becoming impatient, like a racehorse revving for the gate to open. He lived for the action. The thrill of dealmaking. He was ready to get started.
Beau must have picked up on the signals, too, because within seconds, his slides were projected—the room bathed in the cool, blue light of the screen—and we were under way.
Beau walked through the vision for InfoSynth—an AI system that shaved the static out of data pattern recognition.
He had built a tool that could generate modeling patterns on weather and migration, improving our understanding of climate change while predicting infrastructure needs before crises struck.
“What about facial recognition?” Simon asked, leaning forward in his chair as Beau walked through how the product worked. “Patterns of all kinds, right? Can you demo that?”
Beau shifted in his seat. “InfoSynth can be applied to facial recognition, yes. Any pattern, really. But that’s not the point.”
Simon leaned in, eyes sharp. “It could be a major revenue driver. Government contracts alone—”
This made my head snap in Simon’s direction. “Government—”
“I didn’t build this for surveillance,” Beau cut in, his tone smooth but firm. “The vision is bigger than that. InfoSynth is made for applications that serve people. If all you want is facial recognition, there are plenty of companies already in that business.”
The air between them tightened. Simon’s smile stayed tranquil, but his knuckles whitened where they pressed into the tabletop. There were other companies, yes, but Beau’s product was better.
Everyone in this room knew it. So did every wide-eyed intern who passed by the conference room to steal a glimpse of the Beau Walker.
Simon leaned back, recovering quickly, and his voice slipped into the smooth cadence I’d heard a hundred times before.
“Of course, of course. But with Redwood’s scale, we could take InfoSynth global in months.
Double your users. Triple your revenue. We have enterprise pipelines, infrastructure already in place.
You wouldn’t have to compromise the vision. You’d amplify it.”
Simon was in pitchman mode. I could hear it in the grand and irresistible intonation of his voice. He could make a hurricane sound like a spa treatment.
But this wasn’t the pitch I’d brought Beau here for.
“What about the alignment with our users and early detection for home health emergencies?” I asked, too quick, too hopeful. I wanted to salvage the meeting, of course. But I also wanted to understand where I had lost the thread.
Enterprise pipelines weren’t what Simon and I had talked about. We’d talked about integration. Making InfoSynth the engine to improve home safety for our users—monitoring movement and health signals to detect when someone has had a medical event.
Simon was pitching something different.
When did I stop knowing everything Simon Avery was thinking?
Simon didn’t glance in my direction. “That’s not the play here, Este.” His tone was dismissive, and the flick of his hand stung.
He was already back on his pitch, chasing contracts and scale. Beau’s jaw twitched as Simon retook the floor, spinning a future from thin air.
After a few more seconds, though, Beau reached forward and pulled his laptop closed with a soft click. The sound was so final I flinched.
“That’s not what I built this for,” he said, and the air in the room went dead.
Simon froze, and his posture became rigid. I knew that look. He was scrambling for a save. But the meeting was already over.
Sitting between them, I felt the bottom drop out. The deal had imploded.
“Thanks for the invitation, Este,” Beau said. As he slid the laptop into his bag, I caught a glimpse of the corner of a worn black sticker. It was peeling at the edges, but a faded Creative Commons logo was visible.
My pulse hiccuped. Creative Commons was a nonprofit dedicated to making knowledge and creative work more freely shared. A favorite cause for activist coders.
It suited Beau perfectly. But it clashed with everything Simon stood for. Simon was a capitalist to the bone. To him, everything was for sale at the right price.
So why did Beau take the meeting?
Before I could ask him myself, Beau zipped up his bag, and his gaze caught mine, steady and certain. The world tilted. Admiration for his conviction ignited a second wave of heat that curled through me, sharp and dangerous, and I forced myself to look away before Simon noticed.
Then Beau left without another word. The door whispered shut behind him, leaving only Simon and me in the glass box.
Simon gathered his papers with clipped movements. “We’ll regroup,” he said, the smile gone now, his voice tight. And then he was gone, too, striding out without waiting for me.
All I could do was stare at the empty chairs, feeling the weight of failure settle over my shoulders.