Eliza Copley's relationship with her sourdough starter, Larry, was complicated. Larry was a metaphor for her life: messy, unpredictable, occasionally beautiful, and currently threatening to boil over and ruin everything.
The utility bill was the catalyst, a stark, unforgiving $480 in blood-red ink. Eliza, a romance novelist whose biggest financial success to date was selling an old electric toothbrush on eBay, stared at the number with the detached horror one usually reserves for a bad colonoscopy result.
"Larry, buddy," she murmured, peering into the glass jar on her counter. Larry, a thriving ecosystem of yeast and bacteria, responded with a burp of bubbles that smelled faintly of fermented apples and poor life choices. "We need an income stream. Not a hobby. A stream. A surging, cash-money river."
Her own novel, The Duke and the Decibel, was currently sitting with her agent, who had politely suggested the plot might be 'too heavily reliant on a side character who is a talking teapot.' Eliza knew her creative output needed to be channeled, but her bank account needed a miracle.
The miracle did not arrive. What arrived, instead, was the reason she now needed to find a new apartment, which was currently standing two feet from her front door holding a clipboard.
Caleb Vance.
Caleb Vance was not just a neighbor; he was an economic statement. He lived in the pristine, minimalist loft across the hall and worked as a high-tier financial consultant—a person who dealt exclusively in optimizing other people's already-massive wealth. He was immaculate, possessed a jawline that could slice paper, and wore bespoke Italian suits even when checking the mail. Eliza suspected his internal organs were color-coded.
He was currently knocking with the precise, rhythmic intensity of a metronome set to Presto.
Eliza had borrowed his antique silver ice bucket three weeks ago, claiming she needed it for a 'Victorian-era tea set photo shoot' (it was actually holding ice for a very sad gin and tonic).
She smoothed her flour-dusted pajamas, plastered a dazzling, utterly fake smile onto her face, and yanked the door open.
"Caleb! What a spectacular surprise! Did you know your bucket is absolutely glowing? I think it adds to the patina."
Caleb didn't blink. He just adjusted the tortoiseshell glasses perched perfectly on his nose and referenced the clipboard. "Eliza. The rental agreement states clearly that common area storage is not permitted for 'culinary experiments prone to spontaneous expansion.' Your 'culinary experiment' has now expanded onto my doormat."
Eliza looked down. A sticky, pale river of aggressive sourdough starter—Larry, in his latest dramatic phase—had indeed leaked under her door and was currently meeting Caleb's highly polished leather shoe.
"Oh, Larry! Bad boy!" Eliza scooped up a handful of the viscous goo with a kitchen towel. "He's just excited. Highly active culture. It means he's viable."
Caleb sighed, producing a miniature, individually wrapped antibacterial wipe from his jacket pocket. "The liability for 'highly active, spontaneously expanding cultures' is an unacceptable risk profile. I am recommending the building manager issue you a three-day notice to cease and desist."
"Cease and desist what? Flour and water? That's, like, a fundamental human right!"
"The uncontrollable monetization of yeast, Eliza," he corrected, wiping his shoe with the precision of a surgeon. "It has no structure, no target demographic, and zero return on equity."
Eliza snapped. "And you have no fun, Caleb! You're a man who uses the word 'equity' as a verb! But guess what? This yeast," she held up the jar, now aggressively bubbling against the glass, "is the most alive thing in this hallway. It's got audacity. And audacity, in this market, is income."
Caleb paused, his brow furrowed, a flicker of something unreadable—was it interest?—crossing his features. "Audacity is a qualitative metric. But... is that what the ultra-wealthy are currently paying for? Experiential, high-touch, hyper-localized qualitative assets?" He looked from the exploding jar of dough to the panicked, financially ruined author.
"Yes," Eliza declared, sensing a shift in the air, a tiny gap in the spreadsheet of his mind. "They pay for prestige. They pay for a bespoke, organic, hand-delivered starter with a fully documented provenance. A starter that, like Larry, has a story."
Caleb's eyes narrowed, not in disgust, but in calculation. He tapped his pen against the clipboard. "The cost of goods sold is negligible. The labor is high, but we could offset with a premium subscription model. A 'Starter & Success' service. A luxury food product that demands daily interaction, ensuring perceived exclusivity." He looked at her, then at Larry. "It's absurdly inefficient. It's wildly profitable. The income-generating potential is... high."
Eliza felt a thrill that had nothing to do with her gas bill. "We call it 'The Yeast of Least Resistance.' You handle the ledger, I handle the leaven. Partners?"
Caleb looked at the slimy residue on his shoe, then at the $480 utility bill visible on Eliza's counter. He tucked the antibacterial wipe back into his pocket. "I will need a signed Memorandum of Understanding and full access to your proprietary process. And we'll start with a six-month projection model. But yes, Eliza. For the purposes of purely maximizing fiscal return, we are partners."
He did not shake her hand. He offered her a clean, latex glove. "For sanitation purposes."
The war—and the business—had begun.