“Yeah.”
He says it simply.
I lean back slightly on the stool.
“And then what?”
A small shrug.
“Then it worked.”
I laugh once. “That feels like an aggressively abridged version.”
The corner of his mouth shifts.
“I patented it. A manufacturer picked it up. Then a few more did. I ended up building a company around it because it made more sense than licensing it through someone else.”
I stare at him.
“You built a company because your invention took off.”
“More or less.”
“Mark.”
He huffs a quiet breath, somewhere between amusement and surrender.
“Yes.”
“How much is more or less?”
He takes a sip of coffee before answering.
“Enough that I built three more after that. Once that company took off, I started investing in similar ventures and gradually built a small portfolio of specialist engineering companies. Now I have one in automotive, one in aeronautics, and one in shipping.”
I just gawk at him.
He looks back.
Entirely calm.
As if this is a normal sentence to drop over poached eggs.
I try to picture the man who, last night, tucked a panicking hamster into a woolly hat and offered me a cuddle,sitting in meetings discussing patents and global manufacturing contracts.
Oddly, it fits.
Because of the mind behind it.
The quiet certainty.
The practical intelligence.
The way he saysthen it worked, as if solving a problem that would make most people cry into a spreadsheet is merely something that happened between Tuesdays.
“That’s...” I start, then stop.
Mark’s gaze narrows slightly.
