Page 64 of That Defining Moment

From: [email protected] To: [email protected]

Subject: Podcast interview — professional enquiry

Dane,

This is a professional email, which I’m aware is an unusual register for us to communicate through, so I’ll keep it brief.

I’m developing a podcast about how the internet shapes real lives. Going into the gap between what gets uploaded and what actually happened. It’s interview-led, independently produced, and backed by Meredith Walton at Detour Audio. If that name doesn’t mean anything to you, google her. It should.

I want to do an episode about us. About TheoTheO, specifically. How the channel started, how it grew, what it did to both of us, and what the industry looks like now from the outside. I’m not interested in a hit piece. I’m not building a prosecution. I’m not going to pretend I was dragged along for the ride. I made choices too, and I intend to own them on the record.

What I am interested in is an honest conversation between two people who built something enormous and never talked publicly about what it cost. You were there for all of it. Your perspective matters to the piece, and I’d rather have you in the room than narrate in your absence.

The format is a recorded sit-down, about ninety minutes, edited for broadcast. You’d have the right to review your own quotes before publication. I won’t ambush you. You know me well enough to understand that if I wanted to go behind your back, I wouldn’t bother emailing you about it first.

If you’re open to a conversation, I’m in London for the foreseeable. Happy to meet wherever works for you.

Lysander

✦ ✧ ✦

He read the email twice, changed “happy to meet” to “happy to meet wherever works for you,” which was the same thing but somehow felt less desperate, then hit send before the part of his brain responsible for self-preservation could stage an intervention.

The email vanished into the ether. The iPad’s screen went dark in his hands. He waited for the regret to arrive.

It didn’t. He’d spent weeks circling this decision, running through every possible scenario in his head, and now that the message was sent, an eerie calm settled over him. Dane would read it and respond, or he wouldn’t.

He set the iPad face-down on the desk, climbed the basement stairs carefully, and followed the layered noise of too many people talking over one another into the kitchen of the Ledbury Road house.

Diwa had a full production line going. Every surface was occupied: a clay pot steaming on the hob, a chopping board covered in garlic cloves that someone had peeled badly, and a colander of green beans in the sink. The alpha stood at the island with his sleeves rolled to the elbow, separating lumpia wrappers, while Ryland hovered at his shoulder holding a digital kitchen scale.

“The filling-to-wrapper ratio is critical,” Ryland was saying. “If you overfill by more than eight grams, the structural integrity of the roll is compromised during the frying process, and you get a blowout.”

“I’ve been making lumpia since I was six, Ryland.”

“I’m not questioning your technique. I’m offering data and actionable methods to improve your output significantly.”

Cassian had stationed himself at the far end of the island with a chopping board, a knife, and what had once been spring onions. His blade hit the board in rapid, percussive strikes that reduced the lot to a wet green smear rather than anything that could be used.

Colin was in the chair at the head of the kitchen table with a mug of rooibos and a clear sightline to every station. He looked like a retired general surveying a campaign, too knackered to lead the charge but entirely unwilling to relinquish command.

“More garlic, Diwa,” Colin instructed. “That’s not enough garlic.”

“I’ve used up a whole bulb, Colin.”

“And I said it needs more.”

Stephen sat beside their father with Max on his knee, one hand bouncing the baby in an absent rhythm while the other scrolled his mobile. He looked up when Lysander appeared in the doorway.

“Oh, lovely. He surfaces.” Stephen’s mouth curled into a smirk. “You know, Sander, most people let their guests unpack before they shag them into a coma. The rest of us haven’t even had a proper look at your alpha.”

Colin’s lips pressed against a laugh, and he smacked Stephen’s arm with no force behind it. “Leave your brother alone.”

“You’re a prick, Stevie,” Lysander said, and pulled out the chair beside his brother. He leaned over to brush his thumb across Max’s cushiony cheek. “He really is a gorgeous baby. Thank fuck he took after his alpha father.”

“You’ve just insulted yourself. We’re identical, Sander.”

“Not in the ways that really matter.”