Page 83 of Julian

“You know what I mean,” she says. “I’ve worked my entire adult life. I’m comfortable when I’m useful. And lately…” Her eyes find me briefly. “I don’t know. I’m a little untethered.”

Outside the windows, Manhattan keeps moving. A cyclist cuts between two taxis. A couple argues outside a coffee shop. Somewhere farther downtown, a siren wails faintly before fading.

Meanwhile, my entire attention is fixed on the woman beside me.

“I’m glad you brought this up,” I say finally.

Her brows pull together. “You are?”

“Yes.” I glance toward her. “Because the truth is, Harper, you’re wildly overqualified to be a driver. You know that. I know that. Percy knows that. I mean, that taxi driver over there can probably tell.”

Immediately she stiffens. “Julian—”

“No. Listen to me.” My tone intensifies enough to stop her interruption. “You solved a multimillion-dollar ticketing disaster in under sixty seconds from the front seat of a car.”

She looks at me.

“You created the entire emotional framework for our All-Star campaign over a lunch. My entire executive team spent months trying to figure out how to connect the Vipers to the city in a meaningful way and you solved it almost as an afterthought.”

That almost earns a smile from her.

“You have instincts that can’t be taught,” I continue. “You understand people. Consumer behavior. Emotional engagement. Narrative positioning.” I shake my head slightly. “Do you know how valuable that is?”

She’s quiet now, listening with interest.

“I don’t want anything handed to me,” she says.

“Of course you don’t. That’s not what this is.”

“No, I really mean that.” She turns toward me more fully now. “I don’t ever want someone looking at me thinking I got somewhere because I’m sleeping with the owner.”

I nod. “Good.”

That clearly isn’t the response she expected.

“Good?” she repeats.

“Yes.” I glance at her. “Because I understand. I didn’t want things handed to me from my father. There’s no satisfaction in that. Earning it yourself is the only way to fulfillment.”

Harper stares at me like she’s trying to determine whether I’m serious. I am.

“There’s a company I invested in about five years ago,” I say finally. “A beauty brand. They’ve expanded aggressively online and now they’re preparing for brick-and-mortar.”

She blinks. “Okay…”

“It’s called Penny Aura.”

Her eyes go wide.

“You invested in Penny Aura?” she asks, incredulous.

“Yes.”

“Oh my God,” she says in disbelief. “I’m literally wearing their mascara right now.”

“I know.”

Her eyes narrow. “How could you possibly know that?”