Lucy had always assumed rock bottom would feel more dramatic—thunderstorms, public embarrassment, sobbing into a pile of unpaid bills. But instead, it was oddly quiet. Just her in a half-lit conference room, staring at the man who claimed to have the answer to all her problems. And a contract that smelled distinctly like trouble.
"So let me get this straight," Lucy said, fingers drumming on the polished mahogany table, the wood cool beneath her skin. "You invest in Lark, save us from imminent doom, and all you want in return is... creative control, fifty-one percent equity, and the right to rename the app to 'DateBot 2.0?'"
