Page 142 of Due Diligence

“Marcus, you didn’t. Before this all came out, you started out with an idea in a dorm room and you turned it into a half a billion-dollar enterprise. Don’t ever forget that. Don’t ever lose sight of that,” she continued. “You’re amazing—and you better not fucking deny it, because you insist on telling me I’m amazing all the time. So if I have to put up with that, so do you.”

I didn’t know what to say to her. Luckily, I didn’t have to say anything.

Cass wasn’t done—not by a longshot.

“People make mistakes. We have to forgive them. You taught me that, but you need to apply that wisdom to yourself as well. You need to forgive yourself.” She reached out and took my hand. “Look, Like I said, I’ve got some money left over from the account I was going to use to pay back my parents. It’s just sitting there. Let’s do this together.”

“Really?” I finally said. “You really think we can do this?”

“Absolutely,” she assured me. “Marcus fucking Fitz, will you take over the world with me?”

She really did get me. She really did know what made me tick and what I needed to hear.

Grinning, I nodded in response. “There’s nothing I would rather do.”

Epilogue: Cass

Yet another six months later

Perplexed, I stirred the pot on the stovetop, frowning as I stared into it. Steam wafted out of it, obscuring the chicken inside. I waved a potholder over the top, hoping to get a good look at the dish.

My chicken was purple.

“Does this look right?” I asked, even though I knew the answer would be a resounding no.

Marcus placed a hand on my waist and peered over my shoulder. “This is coq a vin?”

“The fact that you have to ask is so troubling to me,” I responded. “I ruined it, didn’t I?”

“It’s purely out of love and undying devotion that I’m going to back away slowly,” he replied.

“Damn it,” I muttered. I attempted, in vain, to salvage it by stirring some more—but that really only seemed to make it angrier.

Just then, Alex popped into the kitchen and looked over my other shoulder. “You know you fucked that up, right?” he asked.

“Oh fuck you, Alex,” Marcus immediately snapped, jumping to my defense. “What the hell have you ever cooked?”

“I made that salad,” he reminded him, gesturing over at the metal bowl on the counter.

“Made a salad?” Marcus questioned, eyes narrowed. “You ‘made a salad?’ You bought a bag of spring mix at Trader Joe’s and poured store-bought vinaigrette on top. Should we bow down to you, chef?”

“First of all, I call it Joseph’s, not Trader Joe’s—you damn plebeian. Secondly, I also threw some croutons on top, so screw you, Marcus,” Alex shot back.

“Can you both shut up? Our families are going to be here any minute and my dad gets hangry,” I said. “God. Okay, decision time: Do I order food, or do we just serve them this?”

“Why order food?” Marcus asked. He was leaning against the refrigerator with his arms folded over his chest and he was still glaring at Alex. “We have Alex’s bitchin’ salad over there.”

“Get fucked, Fitz,” Alex snapped back, advancing towards Marcus.

“Stop!” I insisted. I held up my hand to stop Alex in his tracks. “Here, Marcus. Take my phone. Can you please order something? And Alex, clean this up.”

“And what are you going to do?” Alex questioned as he picked up a dishtowel.

I was halfway to the living room. “I’m going to open a bottle of wine and contemplate why I was so stupid as to go into business with you clowns.”

Alex chuckled as he heaved the Dutch oven off the burner. “Look, Cass, as a former CEO, I have to tell you—those jokes are going to go to your head one day.”

“Who said I was joking?” I deadpanned.

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