To me, business isn't about wearing suits or pleasing

Host: The office was nearly empty. A few computer screens still glowed in the dark, like faint embers refusing to die. The clock on the wall ticked with a dull, steady beat — a reminder of how late it had become. Outside, the city was alive with honking horns and neon, but inside, only the hum of the air conditioner broke the silence.

Jack sat by the window, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the skyscrapers pierced the fog. Jeeny stood behind a desk, her hair tied messily, a few strands falling over her face. A half-finished presentation glowed on her laptop screen, charts and projections frozen mid-sentence.

Host: They had spent the day in a boardroom, surrounded by executives, budgets, and buzzwords. Now, when the meeting was over and the suits had gone home, only the truth remained — raw, unpolished, and waiting to be said.

Jeeny: (closing her laptop slowly) “Do you know what Richard Branson said once? ‘To me, business isn’t about wearing suits or pleasing stockholders. It’s about being true to yourself, your ideas, and focusing on the essentials.’”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “Ah, the billionaire rebel himself. Easy for him to say when he owns islands.”

Jeeny: “You think he started with an island? He started with an idea — just like everyone else who ever built something that mattered.”

Host: The faint glow of a desk lamp cast a circle of light around them, like a stage in a forgotten theatre. Dust motes danced in the air, tiny stars caught in their own orbit.

Jack: “Maybe. But the world isn’t run by ideas anymore, Jeeny. It’s run by numbers — quarterly earnings, growth graphs, profit margins. The people who talk about ‘being true to yourself’ usually have enough money to afford authenticity.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. The people who talk about it are the ones who remember what it’s like to lose it.”

Host: Her voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of something personal. Jack turned to look at her — she wasn’t just debating; she was remembering.

Jeeny: “You know, when I started my startup, everyone told me to play it safe. To copy what already worked. But I couldn’t. I wanted to build something real, something that actually helped people. The first few months were a disaster — no funding, no recognition. But those were the purest days. Because I was still true to my idea.”

Jack: “And what happened?”

Jeeny: “We finally got an investor — and that’s when it all started to change. Suddenly, it was about numbers, not values. About growth, not goodness. I looked up one day and realized I was running a business I didn’t even believe in anymore.”

Host: Her eyes glistened in the dim light, reflecting the city below — a mirror of ambition and regret.

Jack: “That’s the price of playing in the real world, Jeeny. Ideals don’t pay salaries. People don’t work for dreams — they work for rent.”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “And yet every dreamer you’ve ever admired — Jobs, Branson, Musk — they all started with something impractical. They weren’t thinking about stockholders; they were thinking about possibility. You think Apple was born in a spreadsheet?”

Jack: “No, but it survived because it learned how to use one.”

Host: A faint chuckle escaped him — bitter, but honest. The tension softened for a brief moment, like two boxers lowering their gloves after a long round.

Jeeny: “That’s the thing, Jack. Somewhere along the line, we started confusing business with bureaucracy. We wear suits, we speak in metrics, and we call it vision. But business — real business — is still about creation, not compliance.”

Jack: “And what about the people who depend on you? The employees, the investors? You can’t feed them with ideals.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can feed them with purpose. Have you ever noticed how the best companies have people who believe in something? That’s not coincidence — it’s culture. Look at Patagonia. They gave up profits to protect the planet. Look at Tesla — they nearly went bankrupt, but kept pushing toward sustainability. You think they did it because it was ‘convenient’?”

Host: The night wind pressed softly against the windows, carrying the muffled roar of the city below. The two of them stood like silhouettes carved into a moment of stillness.

Jack: (sighing) “You always make it sound noble. But the truth is, most of us don’t get to choose between purpose and profit. We do what we must to survive.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the tragedy — not that we can’t afford truth, but that we stopped trying to.”

Host: Jack turned back to the window, his reflection staring back at him — a man who had once wanted more than metrics, now trapped in them. He remembered the first project he’d ever led, the fire he’d felt, the nights he’d worked not for money, but for meaning. Somewhere along the way, that flame had been dimmed by spreadsheets and deadlines.

Jack: (softly) “You really believe you can build something great without pleasing the stockholders?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because when you build something great, they’ll be pleased anyway — just later than they’d like.”

Host: There was a long pause. The clock ticked on, but neither of them moved. The weight of the conversation pressed between them — not heavy with conflict, but rich with understanding.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve just been afraid. Maybe chasing the essentials means letting go of too much — the titles, the bonuses, the illusion of control.”

Jeeny: “It’s not letting go, Jack. It’s coming back. To what actually matters. To the idea that started it all. Business isn’t about money; it’s about meaning.”

Host: She stepped closer, placing her hand on the edge of the desk. The lamp light flickered, catching the faint glow in her eyes — eyes that still believed.

Jeeny: “Richard Branson didn’t build Virgin by following a formula. He built it by breaking them. That’s what ‘being true’ means — not rebellion for rebellion’s sake, but authenticity. A kind that makes people trust you, even when you fail.”

Jack: “And you think I can still find that?”

Jeeny: “Only if you stop pretending you lost it.”

Host: The room grew quiet again, but it wasn’t an empty silence — it was full of reckoning. Jack’s eyes softened, the lines of his face gentling as he looked down at the city lights below. He saw not just buildings, but stories — each one burning with someone’s idea, someone’s belief, someone’s truth.

Jack: “Maybe we’ve been looking at business wrong all along. Maybe it’s not a machine, but a mirror. It shows us who we are.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And the best businesses — like the best people — stay human.”

Host: She smiled, and for the first time that night, Jack did too. The clock struck midnight, and the light from the city spilled across the office floor like gold dust.

Jack: (quietly) “To be true to yourself, your ideas, and the essentials. Maybe that’s the only balance that ever mattered.”

Jeeny: “It is. The rest — the suits, the numbers — they’re just the costume. The real performance happens here.” (she tapped her chest) “In the heart.”

Host: Outside, the city kept moving — endless, relentless, alive. But in that quiet office, two people had rediscovered something simple and sacred: that business, like art, like life, was never about pleasing others. It was about believing enough to begin again.

The lamp flickered once, then steadied, as if agreeing.
And the night, for the first time in years, felt honest.