13. Margot
13
MARGOT
T he nausea hits me before I even open my eyes. It’s not as sharp as yesterday, but it lingers, low and steady, curling at the edges of my stomach like an early warning system refusing to be ignored. I press the back of my hand to my mouth and breathe through it, slow and deliberate, counting each inhale until the sensation dulls enough for me to sit up.
The filtered morning light spills through the cabin windows, painting the floorboards in soft gold. The scent of cedar mingles with something faintly buttery, toast, maybe, or coffee that’s been sitting too long, and the combination makes my stomach lurch again. I push the blanket back and move toward the bathroom, careful not to wake Grayson. My steps are slow, steady, focused entirely on not making a sound.
By the time I’ve splashed water on my face and taken several deep breaths by the small window, I know I can’t keep putting this off. The secret is heavy, sitting just below my ribcage like it’s waiting for a cue. But I’m not ready to tell him. Not yet. Not when we’re still so tangled in everything else. So instead, I do the only thing that’s ever made me feel like I have control. I get to work.
The quiet of the cabin has shifted. What once felt like peace, now presses against my chest like a weight. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of pine outside, feels like a reminder that time is running out.
Grayson heads out to chop firewood, either out of necessity or just to prove he can. I don’t ask questions. I wait for the door to shut behind him, the latch to click, the sound of his boots fading down the steps. Then I move.
I grab my laptop from beneath the bench and settle at the small table by the window. The pines sway outside like they’re keeping secrets of their own. My fingers hesitate above the keyboard for only a second before I launch the secure remote system and begin combing through our backend logs again. Click. Scroll. Click. Search.
My eyes dart from line to line, hunting inconsistencies, tracking digital footprints like they might reveal a face. The screen casts a cold, bluish glow across my skin, stark against the cabin’s warm wood tones. And then, I see it. A name. A timestamp that doesn’t belong.
It’s small, almost innocuous. But it’s something. My pulse picks up speed. I lean in, beginning to build the pattern, eyes narrowing with each connection I map. Whoever did this, they knew exactly what they were doing. They were precise. Strategic. Too careful.
My breath fogs up the window slightly as I chase a thread I hadn’t seen before. My chest tightens, not from fear, exactly, but from something deeper. Suspicion. Pressure.
One folder. Two. Then a third. Hidden beneath a string of characters designed to blend in. Masked in legacy code only someone with intimate access would think to use. Sophie’s name crosses my mind. Briefly. Instinctively. But I shake it off just as quickly. No. Not Sophie. She wouldn’t. But that leaves a short list: Alana Beckett.
Her name flashes again, more urgent than ever. I’ve suspected her since the beginning, flagged her in every mental audit. But now, the pattern is clearer. She left six weeks before launch, citing burnout and a need to step back, but her access hadn’t been fully revoked for days. She still had her hands on the system long after she should have been gone. She had a vision. She always did. One where the algorithm wasn’t just a tool but a suggestion, where gut instinct ruled over code. She wanted more humanity in the match process. She wanted control, and she didn’t like that I had it.
Until now, I hadn’t thought to look beyond her. Because if Alana did this, she didn’t do it alone. She couldn’t have. Not with the reach this breach required. Someone helped her. Someone still inside. Someone with access.
I begin pulling logs from the days surrounding her exit. Every file transfer, every flag, every sudden permission change. I scan for overlaps, cross-referencing timestamps like I’m solving a puzzle no one else knows exists. And there it is. Another login. A different device. A different city. But the same file access. Someone’s helping her, and I’m going to find out who.
I push my chair back slowly, rubbing a hand over my face as the weight of what I’ve uncovered settles in. The cabin feels smaller now. The air, thinner. Footsteps crunch outside. Grayson’s coming back. I close the laptop, slide it under the bench, and walk calmly to the stove. I grab the kettle and begin fussing with tea like that’s all I’ve been doing all morning.
When the door opens and Grayson walks in, cheeks pink from the cold and arms full of wood, he grins like nothing’s changed, and for a fleeting moment, I let myself smile back. Even though my heart is pounding, because someone betrayed us, and I intend to find out exactly who. Before I lose the trail, I open a secure tab and start composing a message to Olivia: Need you to quietly look into Alana Beckett’s last two months before she left. Specifically comms with outside vendors, flagged admin activity, and any shift in her calendar patterns. Also cross-reference system access logs for anyone with overlapping credentials. Priority. Don’t loop in Sophie yet.
I pause for a beat, then add: You’ll understand soon. Just trust me.
I encrypt the message and hit send, then delete the thread from my history for good measure. It’s not that I don’t trust Olivia. I do. But I trust fewer people every hour this goes on. If Alana had help, we’ll find a trace, A footprint, a whisper, and with Olivia’s help, I’ll find out who stayed behind to finish what Alana started.
Minutes later, her reply comes through, short and efficient, classic Olivia: On it. I’ll start digging and keep it off the main logs. Give me twenty-four hours.
A second message from Olivia follows before I can exhale: Also, heads up. Two more elite-tier clients reached out this morning threatening to pull their accounts. Citing ‘loss of confidence’ in our long-term projections. Apparently the rumor mill is gaining traction.
I stare at the message, pulse pounding. Another crack. Another threat. And more than ever, I feel like I’m running out of time to stop this from crumbling completely. The clients in question, Vivian Carlisle and Julian Ross, aren’t just anyone. Vivian is a venture capitalist with ties to three of our biggest competitors, and Julian practically is our luxury tier, a reclusive tech billionaire who doesn’t just invest, he influences. If they walk, others will follow.
I don’t have time to craft a campaign. What I need is someone who knows how to handle people, how to persuade them when they’re already halfway out the door. Grayson.
He walks back into the room just as I’m rereading Olivia’s message, shaking snow from his coat sleeves. I cross to him without hesitation.
“I need a favor,” I say, keeping my voice low.
He raises an eyebrow. “This sounds serious.”
“Vivian and Julian are both considering leaving. Olivia says they’ve lost confidence. If we don’t intervene now…”
“You want me to charm them,” he says, already catching on.
“Convince them,” I correct. “Calm them. Remind them what we’re building, and why they trusted us in the first place.”
He pauses, then nods slowly. “I’ll take care of it.”
And for the first time all morning, I let myself breathe just a little easier.