Someone you trust now has the final word.
Everything you publish here has always been counted, bounded and one click from off. What it never had was a human who says yes — and not us: someone inside your own organization. They see what every site says it collects, they can ask you to explain it, and until they're satisfied nothing has to move. Because a review is only worth the answer it gets, you got the other half too: you can finally read and fix your own declaration instead of waiting for someone else to. Read it as a tour — each stop shows what changed and how you'd use it.
A checkbox is not a promise. A person is.
Bailey is very good at objective facts — this form takes an email, this page is public, this data is three weeks old. It is hopeless at the question that actually matters: is that a good enough reason? No algorithm should answer that on your behalf. So this episode hands the judgement to a human in your organization, gives them somewhere to stand, and — the part everyone forgets — gives the person on the other end a way to answer back.
A purpose that says nothing stops coming out green.
We found this on our own demo fleet, which is the only honest way to find it. Every box was filled. Reason for collecting these names and emails: “Internal use, TBD.” Kept for: ten years. Legal basis: “vibes.” All of it sailed through as declared — green tick, clean register, everybody covered and nobody one bit safer. That isn't reducing risk, it's laundering it. So the checks stopped asking “is the field filled in?” and started asking “does this say anything?”
A reason that describes something
A placeholder, a bare category (“marketing”), a four-word shrug: the page comes back marked incomplete instead of green. A purpose is meant to describe what you'll do.
Checked for substanceTen years is not a plan
There's a ceiling now, and sensible marks per kind of page — the answers to a one-night event don't need three years of shelf life.
Retention, sanity-checkedThe legal reason is a real list
It used to be a free text box, so anything typed in it passed. It's now the short, closed list the law actually recognises — nothing else gets through.
No more free textAnd the things that follow from taking substance seriously:
- ✓ Asking for a lot gets noticed — six or more personal fields on one form raises a flag for a human to look at. Not a refusal: a big form can be perfectly legitimate, and a person decides that
- ✓ A missing reason now costs you — it used to mark a page incomplete without moving its risk score at all, so the “start here” list quietly stepped over it. It doesn't anymore
- ✓ Your AI gets the question handed back — when a declaration is thin, Bailey passes your assistant the question to put to you, in your words, rather than letting it invent a plausible-sounding answer
Marco asks for a signup page for the trattoria's pasta workshop. His assistant builds it, publishes it, and then — instead of declaring victory — comes back with a question:
Nothing was blocked — the page is up, the question travelled with it. Marco says “send them a reminder the day before, and the recipe after.” That sentence is what the register now carries, instead of two words nobody would defend.
A person decides. Not a rulebook, and not us.
Here is a judgement no platform should make for you: whether “customer follow-up” is a good enough reason to keep phone numbers for two years. It depends on your business, your clients, your promises. It belongs to a human who knows all three. So Bailey's job stopped at the part it's actually good at — noticing, gathering and holding — and the deciding moved to someone in your organization, with a queue to work through and three ways to answer.
Choose how strict you are
Advisory: the queue shows you everything, nothing stops. Approval first: a new form's data waits until someone says yes. Either way the site stays live — you hold the data, never the work.
Your organization's callA session, not a spreadsheet
One declaration at a time, front and centre, every concern pinned on the exact value that caused it. A approves, C asks the creator for a clarification, R rejects. Then the next one.
Empty the queueA list that reads like a sentence
Who made it · what state it's in · why it's flagged, in words · how heavy · how much data. Grouped by what it needs from you, so the reading order is the priority order.
Sorted by what's urgent- ✓ Silence doesn't buy a pass — a page caught quietly storing personal data without declaring anything lands in the same queue as everyone else. Declaring nothing was never the safe option
- ✓ A refusal can't be published over — republish as often as you like; only the reviewer reopens it
- ✓ Cosmetic changes don't wake the review — rewrite the copy, change the colours, publish twenty times. It only comes back when what you collect, why, or for how long actually changes
- ✓ Personal projects are never in anyone's queue — no organization, no review, no hold. This whole machine is opt-in by belonging
Nadia looks after privacy at a forty-person design studio. Thursday morning, six declarations are waiting. She clicks Start the review session and the table disappears: one page at a time, the declaration itself in the middle of the screen, the questionable bits underlined where they sit.
Recruitment landing page, clear reason, six months — A. Client survey, no personal data at all — A. Workshop signup, 3,650 days — she stops. It's not malice, it's a typo, and rejecting it would be theatre. She presses C, types “ten years for a workshop signup?”, and moves on.
Four minutes later: All caught up. Six decisions, all real, all written down.
The conversation has an ending.
The first time we ran a real review, it broke in the most instructive way possible. The reviewer asked a fair question about a form keeping answers for ten years. The person who could have fixed it in five seconds couldn't see the question, and couldn't see the number either — their own retention setting wasn't shown to them anywhere. A review only that one side can see isn't a review, it's a rejection with extra steps. The other half shipped the same day.
You see the ask where you work
A mark on the project in your list, and the question itself at the top of the project — dated, in plain words, with a link straight to the place that answers it.
Nothing to hunt forYou can fix it yourself
The reason, the legal basis, how long you keep it, who answers for it: editable from your own project. Save, and it goes back to the reviewer with the fix attached.
No republishingNumbers you were never shown
How long each thing is kept and under which legal reason are now spelled out on your own screen — including when the answer is zero, which used to just be blank.
Your file, readable- ✓ A paused form says paused, not error — when collection is waiting on approval, your visitors read an honest “not taking answers right now” instead of something that looks broken
- ✓ The consent notice stopped eating forms — one wrong tag used to leave a form that looked fine and silently refused to submit forever. Now you mark the spot, Bailey puts the notice there, and it lays out properly whatever your form looks like
- ✓ You always know why something's held — a banner above everything on the project, in the colour the situation deserves, saying what's frozen and what's still perfectly fine
Back to the workshop signup and its 3,650 days. Nobody chose ten years — somebody typed one zero too many, and until this week that typo was invisible to the only person who could fix it.
Now: Marco opens Bailey and the project already carries a mark. The question is at the top of the page, dated Thursday. He clicks through, changes 3650 to 365, saves. It lands back in Nadia's queue with the new number showing. Approved before lunch. Nobody wrote an email, and nobody had to remember to chase anybody.
When something looks wrong, the data stops moving.
Now the uncomfortable case: not a typo — an actual problem, the kind that needs looking into before anyone decides anything. The awkward part is that what you'd need to look at sits inside the very thing whose owner might prefer it gone. So there's a quarantine now, and it holds in the direction that matters: while it's on, the owner can't read it, tidy it, purge it, or delete the project out from under it. Not a punishment — a pause, so a person can find out.
Freeze during, not after
You can hold the data while you're still finding out, not only once you've concluded. Reads, moderation and deletion all stop together.
Investigate firstThe clock pauses too
Automatic deletion is suspended while something's frozen, so nothing quietly expires mid-investigation. It catches up the moment the hold lifts.
Nothing vanishesNobody is held forever
The authority to hold or refuse expires with the membership behind it. If the people who placed it are gone, it lifts — and the lifting is written down, never silent.
No dead ends- ✓ A visitor's rights never freeze — someone asking for their own data to be erased is still served, hold or no hold. That one is never negotiable
- ✓ A hold belongs to whoever placed it — if you belong to two organizations, one of them can't lift or overwrite the other's
- ✓ Everything is written down — decisions, holds, releases, expiries. And reading that journal is itself recorded, because a log you can read without leaving a trace isn't proof of anything
- What was decided
- approved, questioned, refused — with the reason
- By whom
- the person, and the organization they act for
- When it ended
- including a hold that expired on its own
- Who read the file
- the fact, always. Never the visitor's identity
Your sites stop being born on the open internet.
For one person publishing a page, “public unless you say otherwise” is exactly right — that's what publishing is. For fifty people publishing pages, it's the precise shape of the problem Bailey exists to close. Nothing malicious ever happens: an internal thing is public because nobody thought about it that Tuesday, and it stays public for a year. So an organization now chooses where its sites are born, and going public goes back to being a deliberate gesture.
Born inside, opened on purpose
Set new sites to your members only, and that's how they arrive. Making one public becomes a decision somebody takes, not a default nobody noticed.
One settingAsking your AI is not a side door
Pages made by an assistant are born under the same rule, and it says so out loud when it hands you the link — “live for the members of your organization”.
Same rule, both waysNever retroactive
Turning it on changes what comes next, never what's already out there. A setting shouldn't be able to close addresses you've already handed out.
Nothing breaks- ✓ Anyone can read the rule, owners set it — “who will see the thing I'm about to make?” is the maker's question, so everyone gets the answer
- ✓ An organization can be handed its domain directly — for assisted setups, without waiting on a claim and a DNS record. It's a real switch with real consequences, so it says exactly what it will do before you flip it
The studio flips new sites to “members only”. Nothing already published moves. Then someone asks for a page, the way they always do:
The room assignments of forty people never spent a single minute on the open web — and nobody had to remember a setting to make that true.
The skill you can actually take.
A confession to close on. The whole idea of Bailey is that you talk to your own assistant and it does the work properly — asks the privacy questions before publishing rather than after, uses your brand, declares what it collects. We wrote the little file that teaches it those reflexes. And then we never gave anybody a way to get it: no link, no page, no button, anywhere. A skill nobody can take doesn't exist. It exists now — and while we were there, setting up stopped being something you could only do once.
Take it before you sign up
The file and the address both sit in the open, on the landing page and at app.trybailey.app/skill. Read it first if you're the reading sort — no account needed for either.
Public on purpose“Get set up” is a page, not a moment
Four steps at a permanent address, each keeping its resource: the address to paste, the file to download, the sentence to say. Come back for any of them, months later.
Always reachableThe steps tick themselves
Checked by what actually happened, not by you claiming it. Change laptop or browser and Bailey still knows you're connected — a checklist you tick yourself teaches nobody anything.
Observed, not declared- ✓ Five ready-made starting points — a landing page, a product page, a dashboard, a report, an event feedback page. Ask for one by name and it arrives in your organization's brand, with the privacy questions already built in. They were there all along; nothing on any screen mentioned them
- ✓ The permission screen tells you what to say next — it used to close on a spinner in the wrong language and leave you staring at your assistant. It now hands you the exact first sentence, ready to copy
- ✓ The badge on your free pages now goes somewhere useful — someone clicking it just saw a page an AI made for a stranger. Their question is “how do I do that?”, so that's the page it opens
- ✓ For the folks who build their site with a tool — link the folder once and the command line remembers which built folder to publish, so it never ships your source code by mistake
Lena adds the skill to her assistant, pastes the address once, and says hello. She never has to explain Bailey to it again:
That question, asked before the page goes up, is the entire difference between the skill and no skill. Everything else is the same conversation you were already having.
Where the line points.
Ask for an internal page, out loud
Telling your assistant “keep this one inside the company” at the moment you ask for it, instead of setting it afterwards.
A clean slate after a refusal
When a declaration is turned down, one recorded gesture to clear what was collected in the meantime — rather than waiting for it to age out.
Results, not rows
“62% found it useful” instead of three hundred lines to read yourself — with the option to show that summary back to the people who answered.
Content you edit without republishing
The list your page shows — the options, the line-up, this week's picks — editable from your dashboard or by asking your AI, no upload involved.
Publish it. Run it. Answer for it — with a name on the answer.
Connect your assistant once, take the skill, and just ask. What you build gets an address and works. What it collects gets declared, read by someone you actually trust, and stays visible, accounted for, and one click from off.