Ethan
CHAPTER TWENTY
There are two types of problems. The first can be solved with time, resources, and a sufficiently competent team.
The second involves people.
I’m currently dealing with both.
The boardroom smells faintly of coffee and impatience, which is appropriate given the number of people currently attempting to speak without saying anything useful.
The Zurich call has run twelve minutes over, and the Munich delegation has decided this is the moment to revisit a regulatory interpretation we settled three weeks ago.
I let them talk.
Not because I’m interested, but because interruption works best when it ends the conversation, not prolongs it.
“…which is why we believe a more conservative rollout—”
“No,” I say.
Silence.
It arrives exactly on schedule.
I lean forward slightly, resting my forearms against the table.
“We’re not delaying implementation to accommodate hypothetical discomfort.
The system has been tested against every failure scenario currently available to us.
If there are specific concerns, outline them. If not, we proceed as planned.”
A pause. “Our concern is visibility.”
“It’s a safety system,” I reply. “Visibility is the point.”
We move on.
The meeting moves through numbers, deployment timelines, and investor expectations disguised as strategic questions. I answer what requires answering, redirect what doesn’t, and shut down anything that drifts too far from substance.
By the time the call ends, the room has settled back, almost becoming order.
Sara is already making notes. Jeffrey is watching me with the expression of someone deciding whether to say something unhelpful.
He does. “You’re in a mood.”
“I’m working.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I turn away from him. “I’m aware.”
Sara doesn’t look up. “We have a problem. The demo sequence is still proving unstable.”
That gets my full attention. “In what way?”
She taps her tablet, sending a series of logs to the screen. “Intermittent fault detection failure in the predictive layer. It’s not consistent, but it’s present.”
Jeffrey leans forward. “How present?”
“Enough that I wouldn’t risk a live demonstration without addressing it.”
That’s not acceptable.
I stand, moving closer to the screen. The data scrolls in clean, unforgiving lines. Inputs, responses, deviations. Small inconsistencies, but enough to matter.
Enough to fail.
“No,” I say quietly. “That shouldn’t be happening anymore.”
“It is,” Sara replies.
I scan the sequence again, faster this time. The architecture is sound. It has to be. Every layer has been tested, refined, stripped down, and rebuilt where necessary.
This system isn't optional; it’s the entire point.
“The correction logic is lagging,” Jeffrey says. “By milliseconds, but still—”
“I see it.”
Milliseconds are the difference between adjustment and impact, between recovery and loss, between…
I stop that line of thought before it completes itself.
“Get me the latest build,” I say. “Full diagnostics. I want every iteration since the last stable version.”
“It’s already on your system,” Sara says.
Of course it is. “Good.”
The meeting dissolves shortly after that. Sara leaves to coordinate the technical team. Jeffrey remains just long enough to confirm I’m not about to ignore food or sleep in favor of solving this immediately.
“I’ll manage it,” I tell him.
“I know,” he says. “That’s not what I’m asking.”
I don’t respond.
He studies me, then lets it go. “Try not to destroy anyone on your way through it.”
“No promises.”
He smiles faintly. “There it is.”
When he leaves, the office is quiet again.
I return to my desk, pull up the system logs, and begin isolating variables. Inputs, outputs, inconsistencies. It should be enough to occupy my attention fully.
It isn’t.
Because under the structure, under the code, under the controlled sequence of problem and solution, there’s more running in parallel.
Addy… us, the fact that we can’t seem to keep our hands off of one another no matter what’s at risk.
I sit back in my chair, closing my eyes briefly.
This is inefficient. Distraction has no place here. And yet…
I can’t get her out of my mind, no matter what I do. And soon, her sister will be in my home, and that might be the moment everything implodes.
I open my eyes.
No.
This is solvable. Structure is the solution to most things. It should apply here as well.
I shut down the screen, stand, and reach for my jacket. If I leave it, it becomes undefined.
Undefined things escalate.
That’s not acceptable.
The apartment’s quiet when I return.
Midday quiet. The kind that exists when the city is fully awake but the interior space is held in suspension between morning and evening.
I set my keys down and loosen my tie as I move through the entryway. “Addy?”
Her voice carries from the living room. “In here.”
I step into the space.
She’s on the floor with Oliver, building something that appears to involve blocks, a small plane, and a level of structural ambition that will almost certainly collapse within minutes.
Captain is supervising.
Addy looks up first. “Hi.”
“Hello.”
Oliver glances up. “Dad, we’re building an airport.”
“I can see that.”
“It has a runway,” he adds, as if this is the critical feature.
“Of course it does.”
Addy brushes her hands together and stands. “We also have a control tower situation that’s evolving.”
“That’s one way to describe it.”
She hesitates for a fraction of a second. “Do you need something?”
“Yes.”
Oliver looks between us. “Are you in trouble?”
“No,” I say.
Addy smiles faintly. “Yet.”
I ignore that. “I need to speak with you.”
A frown crosses her face. “Okay.”
I glance at Oliver. “We’ll be in the office.”
He nods, already distracted by the imminent collapse of his construction.
Addy follows me down the hallway. The door closes behind us with a soft, decisive click.
She crosses her arms lightly. “This feels ominous.”
I meet her gaze. “It isn’t. We… need to establish boundaries.”
There. Direct and necessary.
Her expression stills. “Okay.”
“This situation,” I continue, “isn’t sustainable without structure.”
A flicker of emotion crosses her face. “Agreed.”
“Then we define it.”
She nods once. “Define away.”
I hold her gaze. “Nothing in front of Oliver.”
Her expression softens slightly, and the tension between us gives way to something more serious. Whatever this is, neither of us wants him caught in it.
“Obviously,” she says.
“Nothing that interferes with your work.”
“Also obvious.”
I pause because the next part is the only one that matters and the only one I don’t want to say. “If it becomes complicated—”
She tilts her head. “It already is.”
“Yes,” I say. “Which is why we don’t allow it to escalate further.”
Her gaze holds mine. “And if it does?”
“It ends.”
She watches me for a long moment, then nods. “Okay. But you’re the one who loses control, remember?”
My jaw tightens slightly. “That’s not true.”
She raises a brow. “No?”
“No.”
She takes a step closer. “Because from where I was standing, you didn’t exactly look like a man exercising excellent judgment the other night.”
I hold her gaze. “And you did?”
She exhales a small, almost laugh. “Absolutely not.”
She’s honest, which feels dangerous. Especially with her in my personal space. “Addy—”
“Ethan—”
We stop.
Same moment, same instinct.
Her eyes flick down briefly, then back up. My pulse kicks up a notch, and I can already feel everything I’ve just said slipping away…
My phone rings, shattering the moment of tension.
Sara.
I don’t look away from Addy as I answer. “What?”
“There’s been a change,” Sara says immediately. “The demo instability isn’t isolated.”
My focus shifts instantly. “How widespread?”
“We’re seeing pattern inconsistencies across multiple sequences. It’s not random.”
That’s worse. “Send me everything.”
“It’s already updating to your system. Ethan…” a pause, then, “this could affect the gala.”
“Not if I fix it first.”
“I thought you’d say that.”
“I’ll be back shortly.”
I end the call, and the room reorients.
Addy is still standing in front of me, the tension present.
“I have to go,” I say.
She nods. “Work.”
“Yes.”
“We’re… okay?”
I smile. “Yes.”
She studies me. Then nods. “Okay.”
I move past her, opening the door.
Control. Structure. Work.
As I step back into the hallway, Oliver’s voice carries from the living room. “Dad! The airport crashed!”
“Then rebuild it,” I reply.
Because that’s the only option.
It always has been.