Page 80 of The Unfluencer

“Checks out,” I say cheekily. “Only for the Artery. I don’t need all of Ellswood in my personal business. And before you try to turn my question on me, my favorite movie is The Lost City. It’s about this romance writer kidnapped by this evil billionaire⁠—”

“Oh, please tell me you’re not serious.”

I shoot him an unflinching deadpan look. “Sir, I don’t play about my movie,” I say. “Sandra Bullock is my girl, and the way she handled herself with that non-reading, greedy narcissist who read one of her books and assumed she must know where some ancient town is located… Demanding she unearth all these worldly treasures.”

Warner is bent over with laughter.

“I’m not seeing the humor.” I’m fighting for my life not to laugh. “All these opinions. Have you even watched it?”

“I haven’t,” he admits, fully amused. “But Nacheline told me about it, and… it just sounds like a watered-down Indiana Jones with a weak plot and weird romantic choices. They’re barely escaping with their lives, danger all through the jungle, and suddenly, they can’t keep their hands off each other? Come on, now.” He snickers.

I actually gasp. “First off, I’m deeply insulted. And second, where is your sense of adventure? Love in high-stress situations?” I shoot him a learn something look. “Everyone knows evading death together leads to falling faster. But fine… It’s not my fault you can’t appreciate brilliant comedic timing and adventurous romance.” I sigh dramatically. “Nine. Yours?”

“Easy. Hands down, Indiana Jones.”

“Shocker.” I roll my eyes, then laugh at how unserious this conversation is.

Warner shrugs, adorably pleased with himself, then pauses, realizing it’s his turn again. “Let’s see…”

We’re both clearly skirting the heavy hitters, scraping the bottom of the favorites barrel. I still have a few in reserve—food, sounds, scents, city versus beach—but I’m low-key concerned we’ll never break past the surface as he slides his charred pancakes in front of me with a grimace.

“Ten. Favorite cereal?” he asks, sheepish.

It’s an unfair question, considering he’s fresh out of Cap’n Crunch and left with only extra-dry muesli and plain oatmeal.

I make myself a bowl of dry muesli anyway, deciding to keep going to twenty, as the conversation zigzags. From tabloid labels Warner’s collected over the years (Luxe Husband, widower, tech mogul, billionaire, homeless), to the attempted break-in at his house, and finally to my raspberry shampoo.

That’s when I decide I need to gently change the trajectory.

“I see your shampoo,” I say, “and I raise you lucky number thirteen. Why an app for real estate surveying?”

Warner studies me for a second, looking almost relieved we’re going deeper.

“It’s my purpose,” he says. “When I was eight, we lost our home to a fire. Electrical stress, poorly sealed joints in fire-rated walls, material degradation, mostly. We lived in our car for months. I never could forget that house.” He shrugs, a faraway look in his eyes. “I saved every picture. Learned everything I could about why it happened. When I started thinking about careers, all I wanted was to make sure it didn’t happen again—to anyone. That’s been my mission behind the Mod3D app. Safe structures to live and work in.”

My heart squeezes, knowing his drive isn’t all about dollar signs.

“I love that, Warner.”

His expression softens just a notch. “Thank you. And since we’re on the subject, why an art gallery?”

“You want the long answer or the short one?” I tease.

Of course, he wants the deep, messy version.

So, I tell him about Gertrude, how she inherited her wealth from her mother, who died of breast cancer, and used that money as leverage. First on her only daughter, Phyllis—my mother—making it conditional on becoming a Zion & Zara debutante and majoring in finance to protect the Graves legacy. When that didn’t work, when my mother fell in love with a married man and got pregnant, shaming the Graves name, Gertrude skipped her entirely and set the same conditions on me.

“I wanted to major in art,” I admit quietly. “To paint. To be an artist. But my path was already decided.”

“And somehow,” he says, “you’re not a financial analyst.”

I laugh. “No, I’m stubborn.”

“Nooooo…” Warner says, laughing. A deep, hearty sound. “I never would’ve guessed.”

“Let’s just say I played the long game,” I say. “Did what I had to do, got my footing, then built something meaningful on my own terms. A gallery with a strong artist roster and a foundation so the next generation doesn’t get manipulated out of their passion.” I level him with a look. “Now, I’m after the perfect collection to rewrite history.”

That’s you, sir.