14. Grayson
14
GRAYSON
T he calls aren’t going well. Before I even pick up the phone, the news hits. Olivia texts Margot first, and I watch her face tighten as she reads it. Then she passes me the phone in silence. A headline flashes across the screen: Perfectly Matched Algorithm Under Fire—Industry Experts Call for Independent Audit.
There’s already a panel scheduled for the afternoon news cycle, and apparently a whistleblower rumor is making the rounds. None of it confirmed, but it’s enough. Enough to start a storm we might not be able to contain.
Margot’s pacing the length of the cabin, one hand buried in her hair, the other clenched around her phone. She’s trying to keep it together, but I can see it, the tight set of her shoulders, the panic simmering just beneath the surface. And then my phone buzzes again. This time, it’s Cassian. I hesitate, but answer.
“Grayson,” he says, voice sharp, clipped. "What the hell is going on? I’ve got board members pinging me, press contacts demanding statements, and Eleanor, your aunt, by the way, threatening to go live with her own version of the story."
I rub my forehead. “We’re on it. Margot’s working the system side, I’m handling client retention. We’ve already contained two of the biggest risks.”
Cassian doesn’t sound impressed. “You have days , maybe. You better fix this. Or this entire company goes down with you. Both of you.”
He hangs up before I can respond. I glance over at Margot. She’s staring out the window like she might see the answers written in the trees. Her shoulders shake slightly, and when she turns to face me, there’s more in her eyes than just stress. There’s something she’s not saying. Something else.
Vivian Carlisle doesn’t even let me finish my pitch before she cuts in with a sigh so sharp it feels like a slap. "Grayson, I’ve been in this game a long time. You don’t need to feed me your company line. Just tell me why I shouldn’t pull my portfolio out before the whole thing collapses."
I pinch the bridge of my nose and force a smile into my voice. "Because this isn’t the collapse. It’s turbulence. And turbulence only means you tighten your seatbelt, not jump out of the plane."
There’s a pause. Then a very dry, "Cute metaphor. Still doesn’t inspire confidence."
I pace the floor of the cabin, phone pressed to my ear, eyes on the stack of logs I dropped by the fireplace earlier. "Vivian, listen. I know what the headlines are saying. But the algorithm’s foundation is intact. We’ve identified inconsistencies and are actively isolating the source. And most importantly? Margot and I are still leading this. You trusted us once. You were right to."
She doesn’t reply immediately. And then: "You’ve got forty-eight hours to prove you’re still worth the risk."
Click. Call ended. I stare at the phone, resisting the urge to throw it into the fire.
Julian Ross is next. He answers on the third ring. "Didn’t expect to hear from you personally, King."
"Figured it’d mean more than a press release. Or a generic PR intern with a script."
Julian snorts. "You’re damn right it does. So, what’s the pitch? Talk fast, I’ve got a board call in ten minutes and a bourbon aging in my glass."
“Neither of those sounds nearly as fun as listening to me beg for your continued loyalty.”
“You begging? That I gotta hear.”
“Let’s call it a strong, persuasive appeal. Look, I know how it looks from the outside. But Margot and I are on this. The algorithm is being audited in-house. We already found irregularities and are tracing the source. This isn’t structural, it’s sabotage.”
“That’s convenient.”
“It’s also true.” I pause. “You’ve worked with us from the beginning. You know what we’ve built. Don’t jump just because someone’s yelling ‘iceberg’ without seeing the whole damn ship.”
He chuckles, a low sound. “You always did like your dramatic metaphors. Titanic references, huh? Bold strategy.”
“I didn’t say we’re sinking.”
“No, but you’re handing out life jackets.”
“I’m asking you to trust me. One more time.”
There’s a pause. I can hear him exhale.
“I’ll give you seventy-two hours. That’s it. And if I see another headline with your faces on it? I’ll be the one writing the last one.”
“Fair.”
Click. I let out a long breath and toss the phone on the couch like it personally betrayed me. I let out a long breath and toss the phone on the couch. When I turn around, Margot is standing in the doorway, arms folded, a look on her face that reads equal parts worry and admiration.
“Well?” she asks.
“They’re not running. Yet.”
She exhales. “That’s something.”
Then, out of nowhere, Margot mutters, "God, I would kill for a pickle wrapped in prosciutto. With, like, a drizzle of maple syrup."
I blink. "I’m sorry, what did you just say?"
She waves it off, like the words escaped without her permission. "Nothing. Don’t judge me. It just popped into my head."
"No, no. I’m not judging. I’m just... mentally cataloging that moment for future investigation."
She squints at me, pretending to scowl. "It’s a valid craving. Don’t you dare psychoanalyze me."
I cross my arms and grin. "I’m not psychoanalyzing. I’m just saying that if you suddenly start asking for peanut butter on scrambled eggs, I might call for backup."
She groans and turns away, but I don’t miss the faint blush creeping up her neck or the way her hand instinctively moves over her stomach before dropping back to her side, and just like that, something shifts in my chest. There’s something she’s not saying, and now, I think I might know what.
The fire crackles behind us, the only warmth in a cabin that still smells like fresh pine and cold air. Outside, the fading light slants across the trees, catching on the edge of the single-pane windows and throwing soft golden reflections into the cabin. Inside, it’s just us—Margot barefoot in leggings and a worn NYU hoodie, her hair pulled up in a messy bun that’s slowly falling apart, cheeks still flushed from stress and cold. I’m still half-dressed from the calls, dark jeans, white oxford shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, like I was trying to look professional for people who only care if we survive the next seventy-two hours.
She’s standing in the middle of the room, her arms now loosely crossed, watching the fire like it might tell her something useful. Her expression is calm, but I’ve known her long enough to spot the tension in her jaw, the restless twitch of her fingers.
I walk toward her slowly, then brush a loose strand of hair from her face. "You’re beautiful when you’re plotting vengeance," I murmur, just to see that little spark in her eyes return.
She rolls her eyes. "I’m not plotting vengeance. I’m strategizing for survival."
"Same thing, Evans."
She exhales a soft laugh, the sound filling the small space like a reprieve. I lean in and press a light kiss to her forehead, lingering for just a second.
"Now let’s make damn sure we’re worth betting on."