I snort. “That’s exactly how all the big corps work, and I’m not even doing it to dodge taxes.”

He opens his mouth to argue, then clamps it shut again. Most likely because he knows I’m right. A silence falls over us, broken only by the low rumble of snores from the neighboring rooms and the persistent chirp of cicadas outside. Then he says, “To be honest, I’m surprised you of all people would come up with something like this.” Amusement curls the corners of his lips. “Weren’t you the one who burst into tears in Year Eight maths because the teacher scolded you for not bringing a graphing calculator to class? Then followed up the next day with a signed ten-page letter vowing to never make the same mistake again?”

“How—how do you even remember that?” I demand, humiliation burning through me at the memory. The truth is that I had brought a calculator with me that day, but it was one of those old second-hand ones Mama had found in a sketchy little store down the street. It’d broken into pieces by the time I pulled it out from my bag at school, and after the teacher’s scolding, I’d used up all my lunch money for the next month to buy myself the same calculator as my classmates.

But Henry definitely doesn’t need to know the full story.

“I remember everything,” Henry is saying. Then he clears his throat, some indecipherable emotion flickering over his face. “About everything, is what I mean. I just happen to have an excellent memory.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or roll my eyes. Henry’s arrogance will truly never cease to amaze me.

“So? Are you in?” I ask, fighting back a swell of impatience. Every second we waste standing around here talking is a second that could be better spent getting this thing up and running.

Henry moves to sit down on the edge of his perfectly made bed, crossing one long leg over another. “What’s in it for me?”

I’m more than prepared for this question; I did the calculations last night. “Forty percent of all profits,” I say. It’s more than he deserves, but I need to make an appealing case. Right now, he’s the best—and maybe only—person who can help me.

“Fifty.”

“What?”

“I’ll settle for fifty percent.”

I grind my teeth together so hard I half expect them to fall out. “Forty-two.”

“Fifty-five.”

“Wait—what? That—that’s not how negotiations are supposed to work,” I splutter, anger rising to my cheeks. “You can’t just keep—”

“Fifty-six,” he says, leaning back now, his gaze steady, his eyes the same ink-black shade as the night sky outside.

“Look, you asshole, forty-two is more than generous—”

“Fifty-seven—”

“Forty—”

“Fifty-eight—”

“Fine,” I snap. “Fifty percent.”

He grins, amusement dancing in those night sky eyes, and the effect is striking. Disarming. My stomach dips as if coming off the high of a roller coaster.

Then he says, “You’re a terrible negotiator, Alice.”

And I consider strangling him. I probably would, if it weren’t for the fact that murder seems like a less-than-ideal way of starting a business partnership.