Chapter Twenty-Five
Victoria
Bright and early on Tuesday morning, I drag my ass into headquarters. I haven’t texted Asher and he hasn’t texted me, but I have spent most of my time since race-night obsessing over our kiss, typing out messages, and then deleting them.
I know I’m being a coward, but then, so is he. It seems neither of us have the balls to make the first move.
Unluckily, my tactic bears no fruit. He must have supernatural hearing or vision, because I hear his footsteps stop.
Then, slowly, they start coming closer. I feel like I’m in a goddamn thriller movie with a serial killer stalking me as I flatten myself against the wall and squeeze my eyes shut, internally chanting, if I can’t see him, he can’t see me.
“Really, Intern? You’re resorting to hiding from me now?” he sounds equal parts amused and angry.
I open one eye and cast a horrified gaze sideways.
He’s leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, looking far too good in a simple black shirt and matching jeans.
God, why does he have to be so hot? And why do I have to be so attracted to him?
He’s like a drug; gives the best high, but once you take a hit, you’re hooked for life.
“I was just…” I look around the room, trying to come up with a plausible explanation.
“Don’t bother.” Now Asher sounds just angry. “If you’re that regretful over the kiss, I’ll never bring it up again.” His usual glare returns as he stares at me, and suddenly I feel desperate to correct him.
I don’t regret anything, but I’m terrified. Of you. Of us. Of this whole new world of desire I didn’t even know existed.
I part my lips to say the words, but nothing comes out.
“Right.” His jaw clenches. He clears his throat, rakes a hand through his hair, and makes an effort to sound professional. “I’m going into the sim suite to rerun the race. You can… join me, I guess.”
“I have a meeting with Ilya,” I whisper.
His gaze drops to the floor, and he shakes his head. “Of course. Yeah, that’s why you’re here on everyone’s day off.”
Oh. Oh. He was hoping I came here for him. And, when we almost organically ran into each other, I chose to hide in a maintenance closet over talking to him. It 100% looks like I regret the kiss and am actively trying to avoid him, which I need to fix. Even if I kind of am.
But, before I get the chance, he turns and leaves with hurried steps. I should go after him and explain. We definitely need to have a conversation… except I can’t.
I’ve been passed up for the better option most of my life.
Reynard disowned me before I was born. I got bumped from an MIT scholarship for a 14-year-old genius who didn’t even apply on time.
A few months ago, Stallion chose a nepo baby with zero qualification or experience over me.
Again and again I’ve been second-best despite working harder and going farther than anyone else.
What’s to say an entanglement with Asher won’t end the same way?
The only difference would be that I took all those other times in stride and kept going forward.
Something deep inside me knows that Asher would be different.
When he ends up choosing someone else over me, I’d be beyond devastated.
It wouldn’t just be my pride, ego, or feelings that would be hurt; it’d be the self-worth that I had to build from the ground up, because nobody ever gave it to me or validated me.
So, maybe it is for the best that the kiss is a one-off, and that’s the end of everything.
Don’t let fear hold you back from getting what you want. Delilah’s words come back to haunt me. Is that what I’m doing? Am I being reasonable, or am I just letting my fear rule me?
Damnit. I don’t have time to figure that out now. I should have been at Ilya’s office five minutes ago.
But, as I make my way to my meeting, there’s an undeniable ache in my gut, telling me that I might’ve missed a beautiful opportunity.
“I read over what you sent.” Ilya reclines in an office seat across from me, while I’m cramped into a stylish but uncomfortable armchair.
I clear my throat. “And what did you think?”
“And… I think you’re developing game-changing technology.
I’ve never seen anything so intricate or accurate.
” He smiles privately, as if sharing a joke with himself.
“I suppose that’s what happens when you apply principles of physics and engineering to a data-driven forecasting framework. It’s ingenious.”
My breath stutters, and my eyes start to prickle suspiciously. I know that my algorithm is incredible, but having someone at Ilya’s level agree with me… it’s indescribable. It makes me feel like I can conquer the world, one variable at a time.
His smile drops. “Don’t look so happy. You’re not finished yet—and I’ll remind you, you were hired on the promise that the model would be ready by the time you joined us.” He jerks his chin at me. “What’s the holdup? Do you need investors?”
That’s the third time I’ve heard that phrase, and it makes me as nervous as Delilah bringing the subject up did. I can write an excellent academic paper explaining the merits of my creation, but pitching it to people in real life is a skin-crawling concept.
“Not before it’s done,” I say, shaking my head. “The engineering of it is actually pretty straight forward, and I did all the research I needed on MIT’s dime during my masters.”
Ilya leans forward. “Does that mean they own it?”
I shake my head. “Oh god, no. No, I made sure everything was theoretical. They own the theoretical framework and generalized research, but they don’t own the practical application or the many alterations I’ve made while building it.
They don’t even own the source code—I did all of that after I graduated. ”
“Good.” He looks relieved. “So, I’ll ask again, what’s the goddamn holdup? Is it data from other teams?”
“No, that’s a simple matter of acquiring it and training my model on it.
It’s time-consuming but straightforward—so long as I can get my hands on it.
The holdup is…” I search for the right words.
“Well, the emotional aspect of it. Asher Lawrence is proof that emotions severely impact outcome in this sport, but it’s not just a driver’s emotions.
It’s every active member of a team’s. I have to find a way to quantify abstract concepts like happiness, sadness, confidence, anxiety…
everything. Each of those are unbuilt variables in my model.
As soon as I figure out how to do that, I’ll get it done, but right now I’m stuck.
So the program’s stuck at about 80% completion and maybe 40% accuracy without data from other teams.” I’ve done most of the heavy lifting, it’s just these final parts that are killing me.
Ilya nods thoughtfully. “Any entrepreneur will tell you that the last 20% of work takes 80% of the time.”
My shoulders sag. I don’t have that much time left in my internship. Ilya might be happy with my work right now, but I’m under no illusions that he’ll always do what’s best for the team. If I can’t deliver on my promises, I’ll be out the door at the end of the season.
He scratches his chin thoughtfully. “Have you considered that you might not need to build a variable for every single emotion on the spectrum?”
I frown. “No. I do need to do that.”
“Not necessarily. Maybe if you wanted 100% accuracy…” he trails off at whatever he sees on my expression. “Gospodi, Linden, are you looking for 100% accuracy?”
I think he just swore in Russian. I suddenly feel very stupid, and very small. He asks it like I’m searching for a 100% cure for cancer. “Um… I was going for 98-99%.”
He gazes at the ceiling, sighs, and reaches up to rub the bridge of his nose.
“You do understand that, at best, most statistical modeling at this scale has an 80% accuracy rate? In this field, our accepted models for in-race forecasting function at 70%—and that’s a very kind assessment.
If you give us something that has a 90% accuracy rate overall, we’ll have the best predictive model out of any team.
” He sighs. “MIT kids with their goddamn expectations.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, thoroughly cowed.
Now that he’s said it aloud, it’s easy to see he’s completely right.
I’m trying to perfect something that should naturally have room for error.
I don’t need to be perfect; I just need to be better than what exists.
If I can be significantly better, then I stand to make real change.
“Don’t be sorry; be better,” he says pitilessly.
“As for your emotion problem… emotions all factor into team morale. Look at history. Consider the battles that were won against impossible odds, and how they were won. Or how many people survived impossible circumstances.” He stares at me expectantly.
I blink a few times. If I say luck, I think he’ll fire me on the spot.
“Morale,” he enunciates. “Belief. Confidence. Fucking fairy dust—whatever you want to call it. The special ingredient that makes the impossible possible. It happens when enough people believe in the possibility of a certain outcome, and go above and beyond to achieve it.” He raps his knuckles on the desk.
“That’s all you need to quantify. Morale.
It won’t be 100% accurate, but with everything else in place, it’ll be damn close. ”
My first instinct after the meeting with Ilya is to run to my computer and get to work. That’s quickly sidelined by the memory of Asher, the look he gave me. I should go talk to him, even if it’s just about work.
All of that’s wiped away when Hunter’s name flashes across my screen. A midday call from him is never good. It means that something’s wrong with Mom, or—
“What is it?” I say as soon as I pick up, stopping at the end of the hallway. “What’s wrong? Is Mom okay?”
“Huh? Oh, she’s fine. I’m calling because of Reynard.”
My earlier excitement is wiped away by irritation. “I’m not going, and now isn’t a good time to argue about it. I’m at work.”
“This’ll only take a minute. Here’s my offer.
I’ll fund a scholarship at California Institute of Tech and MIT in Sal’s name.
6 students every year at each school, full-ride, all expenses covered scholarship.
That’s 12 bright young people winning the fucking lottery, and it renews annually.
The offer expires in one minute, when I hang up. ”
I love my brother, but times like this, I fucking hate him because he knows how to get me to agree to something. I just never thought he’d find a way to strong arm me into going to Reynard’s engagement party.
But, if I say no, I’m missing a golden opportunity to honor the man who helped shape me. Doing that would dishonor his memory and our relationship.
“No new building in his honor?” I hedge.
Hunter scoffs. “Don’t push it. You have thirty seconds until the deal expires.”
Fuck my life. I don’t want to see Reynard, or my half siblings and step siblings. At best, they were cold and standoffish when I saw them growing up; at worst, they were outright hostile and cruel, reminding me that I was the only bastard.
“Fifteen seconds.”
“I hate you,” I tell Hunter. “I truly, truly despise you, and I’m giving you a black eye the next time we see each other.” It’s a totally empty threat. I’m not a violent person by nature.
“Five, four, three, two—”
“Deal,” I grit out.
“Excellent. I’ll send my jet for you the day before. Two days, actually, so you can see Mom. Bring appropriate clothing, and make sure you request the time off.”
“I will get you back for this,” I swear.
“I’m doing you a favor. You might not be as money-driven as the Asters, but you’ll eventually thank me. Having a trust fund and an inheritance never hurt. I’m looking out for you.”
He hangs up.
I nearly throw my phone at the nearest wall, but it lights up with a message from Asher. My body tightens in fear and anticipation, which deflates when I read his text.
Asher: Simulation Chamber now, Intern. Stop fucking slacking.
It would appear we’ve returned to the status quo of him being a jerk.