Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Sloane
When Oliver leaves, I feel like I can relax a little.
I’m not sure what it is that has me feeling so on edge today.
Maybe Chickadee is right, and I need to get out more.
Though Oliver is attractive and exudes an air of obedience that speaks to me, it’s not him that has me all out of sorts. Not entirely, anyway.
I click through my most recent report on the prototypes for Phantom, the system I’ve been working on for the last six months to integrate with Veil.
When I discovered the glitch that gave me the Veil, I knew I had something special.
Though my ex insisted the glitch needed to be fixed, because glitches were not reputable.
They were too temperamental and could destroy the product and render it useless.
Though Robert Stratford’s definition of useless and mine seem to differ, seeing as he only deems what he can exploit as useful.
I comb through the reports, hoping for something I can use, some sort of tangible piece of evidence that we’re moving in the right direction, but…
Nothing.
Seven test prototypes, and each one failed to synchronize with the Veil. It’s almost as if somehow, some way, Robert is still mocking me; taunting me that my “little glitch” will never be anything more than a virus that can not be contained.
My gaze settles on the words, but I don’t read them. They are blurred letters, save for a few that stand out. Crash. Inconclusive. Full shutdown.
Not viable.
The last one hits harder than it should. I stare at the designs, so sleek and slender and beautiful. Like pieces of artwork, designed for functionality and modernity, but alas…
They are just junk.
Fucking pieces of quartz and bio-degradable parts that can’t amount to what I need.
I click out of the email, growling in frustration.
And to add insult to injury, I see the email from Global Skies, the tech firm out in California who bought into the Veil as one of its early key investors.
The company who also gets their hands washed by several undercover agencies, who I’ve been told need to remain nameless due to National Security.
The very company who’s given me the funds to infuse the creation of Phantom in the first place.
I don’t have to look at the email to know what it says. It’s the same every time.
Where are our prototypes? How much longer until we have something to show the shareholders?
I need to figure out what’s causing this assimilation issue.
I know it can’t be the algorithm itself.
My ex might have been a selfish prick, but he was no neanderthal.
The plan was always for Veil to be a functioning security system all on its own, capable of expanding with downloadable upgrades and technical mods.
We’d only gotten through two prototypes that worked, and that’s when I discovered the glitch.
The product didn’t coincide with other available systems like it should have. It enhanced them.
Robert said I should have sent the whole thing to the scrap pile, but I knew Veil was my way into the tech market. And all we needed was a foot in the door.
No one was going to invest millions into faulty tech.
But they would invest billions in a program that could not only mimic the best systems on the market, but work as a foundation to increase their reaction time and their smart capabilities.
But even I knew then, Veil would only carry us—or me, technically, seeing as how my ex decided profitability and fame was worth more than safety and innovation—so far.
Which is why as soon as Veil had pulled in its first billion nearly seven months ago, I made it a point to appoint my best employees on building Phantom—the vehicle that would act as the host for the Veil software.
And for the first time, Veil would stand on its own—apart from existing technology.
That is if I can get the fucking thing to work the way it’s supposed to before Global decides to pull back their investment…
Which is also why this bloody gala needs to go off without a hitch. If all else fails, the potential of aligning myself with better, bigger investors will more than help cushion the blow if Global decides to fuck me over.
Chickadee said we only had twelve applications, which doesn’t bode well for the faith in Veil.
Yes, we’re still a new, growing company in the eyes of the assholes in Silicon Valley and the big tech bros, but our success isn’t anything to discount, either.
Success that is fully due to the fact I’ve carried this dream and this company on my back for a whole year, despite the claims of my ex who tried to blackmail me into an equal share of Veil upon threat of hacking into my entire system.
I check the virus scan and the systems analysis, the worry prevalent still.
I’d done what I had to—pretended everything was fine, so he’d go home, and then carefully—and legally—crafted the paperwork that would render Robert Stratford as far away from my Veil as possible.
His algorithm may have led to my discovery of my glitch, but Veil was always mine. I’d been building its code long before I met him.
I shouldn’t fear anyone, especially from where I sit. And it’s not that I fear him; rather, I fear his mind. Genius only comes in two forms—tampered by kindness and generosity, or fueled by egotistical and maniacal obsession.
Robert Stratford’s brain was the latter. And the only thing capable of taming his unhinged genius was a strict hand around the throat.
I shove the thoughts aside as the scans turn up clean. Thankfully.
I get lost in my inbox, going over the hundreds of emails I need to respond to, and barely realize I’ve zoned out until there is a soft knock on the door. I look up, rubbing my eyes.
“Come in.”
I glance to see Oliver, his golden hair swept carefully behind his ears. He glances at the floor at first, his gaze shyly meeting mine.
Some people just have a sort of natural subservience about them. Submission is in their DNA, and most of the time, they either don’t realize it, or they fight against it. And some… they just need to be broken to realize who they truly are when the walls come down.
Oliver has that air. That natural spark that calls to the monster inside of me.
But I swore after what happened with my ex that I would not mix business and pleasure again. And I vow to keep it that way.
Oliver saunters towards my desk and carefully pulls out my take-out boxes from the large bag in his arms.
“One BLT with a side of tomato soup, side Caesar, and cranberry buckle.”
“Thank you, Oliver,” I say as he passes me plastic silverware and napkins.
“Of course, Sir.”
He carefully steps back, clutching the bag to his chest.
“Where are you going?” I ask, noting the way his brows are furrowed. He looks worried. Normally I wouldn’t care, but something about his look makes me feel a pang of concern.
“Oh, I was just going to the break room to—”
“Have I done something to upset you?” I ask.
His eyebrows raise. “What? No, of course not, why—”
“Then sit.” I motion to the table in front of the large open window. Usually, it’s scattered with paper and notes, but today it’s bare.
“Stay awhile. Unless…” I open my silverware. “Unless you would rather eat alone.” I catch his gaze flitting to my eyes as if he can’t help himself.
I’m used to people staring at me. Most of the time it is because of my sudden fame and my appearance, but Oliver looks at me as if it’s more than that.
Oliver looks at me as if he is trying to discern if I am a vicious predator or if I am a docile housecat.
He looks at me as if he is trying to decipher whether or not I can be trusted, and something about that intrigues me all the more.
“No one wants to eat alone,” he says carefully as he takes a seat across from me, in the chair closest to the counters and cabinets.
He doesn’t sit at the top or the bottom, which is telling. It’s as if his body is so tuned in to the absence of a commander, it is like it’s practically begging for direction.
I stare at the food in front of me, then glance over at Oliver.
Normally, I eat at my desk alone, but I can’t help the strange desire to get up and eat at the table, though I ignore it.
I’m having an off day for sure, and so I pull up my phone and bring up the Paramour website.
I take a bite of my sandwich while I wait for the site to load.
Other than the soft sounds of Oliver chewing, it’s quiet.
Eerily so, and there’s a brush of awkwardness as I look up at Oliver once more.
His gaze settles outside, and it looks like he’s lost in thought.
His expression is soft, almost sad as he looks out the window, and I find myself wondering what sort of thoughts would render him so melancholy.
Surely, it’s nothing I have done—but I can’t shake those familiar feelings of inadequacy, which I hate.
I growl in frustration as the website loads and pulls my attention from Oliver.
It doesn’t take me long to find the link I need, and thankfully, Bruno is available this evening for an eight pm session. I book it without a second thought, feeling marginally better about the fact I’ll be able to work out the stress and strain that is obviously affecting my mental state.
I should have done this months ago. I’m not sure why I haven’t.
It’s not like I didn’t utilize the club when I needed it before, but after my departure from my ex, things just felt…
off. In more ways than one. But I suppose I didn’t have time to worry about my cock when Veil was taking all my attention due to its overnight success.
“I hope you’re not too overwhelmed,” I say, breaking the silence as I shove my phone away and pop open the lid on my soup.
Oliver nibbles at his sandwich like a bird. “Of course not, Sir.”
I watch as he takes his small bites, staring out at the window.