Chapter Ten
Victoria
The plane back to the States hasn’t taken off before Declan pulls me aside and awkwardly tells me to stay away from Asher at headquarters. He doesn’t mention upcoming races, which makes me assume I’ll be left in the dust—just like Asher intended.
I’m so upset during the flight I don’t get any work done. When we land, I don’t bother joining everyone who goes out to dinner and parties; instead, I slink back to my matchbox apartment, draw the blinds, and crash.
Oliver allots me a desk in his tech-room and gives me free reign to spend my time as I see fit, so long as I keep him readily supplied with baked goods.
I almost ask him for help with decrypting the data he sent me, but something stops me—probably the need to prove myself and do something successfully.
I know better than to take him letting me choose how I spend my time as a compliment. In reality, it speaks to how the team views me; irrelevant and not particularly useful. I guess that comes with the territory of being an intern, and it’s not like I’m not used to it, but it still stings.
Being left to my own devices means I have enough time to quickly realize that the encryption Oliver used is far from casual.
It’s advanced and so convoluted that something tells me Oliver’s put on the grey-hat before.
I won’t be able to get through it myself, and my pride and need to prove my value keeps me from asking him… which leaves me at an impasse.
Coincidentally, I get a text from my brother the same morning that I realize I’m dealing with advanced, probably hacker-level encryption.
Hunt: I’m in town. Clear your schedule for dinner. I’ll pick you up from your apartment at 7.
No please or if you have availabilities. If I didn’t absolutely adore my only full biological sibling, I’d give him shit for his bad manners.
But even if I tried to lecture him, I doubt he’d listen. Hunter didn’t make his money off being a diplomat; he made it from hostile takeovers and developing a proprietary mathematical trading algorithm that gives him a massive edge over his competitors.
His visit happens to be coming at the perfect time. Hunter has contacts in every corner and industry in the world. If anyone could help me get over the encryption hump I’m facing and allow me to save face with the team, it’s him.
Despite my frustration with my algorithm’s progress, existential fear of losing my job, and overall exhaustion with life, my heart bursts with joy when 7pm rolls around, and an SUV with tinted windows greets me in front of my apartment building.
I’ve been in a shitty mood all week thanks to my blowout fight with Asher and constant blockades at work; I can really use some time with my older brother.
Hunter steps out of the back of the car.
He’s dressed in his customary black Armani suit, Italian leather shoes, and has a Patek Philippe watch that probably costs more than my entire apartment building wrapped around on wrist. His severe expression, which typically vacillates between boredom and fury, makes way for warmth.
His grey eyes, usually dim from boredom or irritation, crinkle at the edges with the hints of a smile as he opens his arms.
“Get your ass over here,” he says. I run into them, squeezing until he wheezes. “Take it easy,” he grumbles, mussing my hair. “You look thin. And sleep-deprived.” His brows slam down. “The last time you looked this bad was during finals in undergrad.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I tease lightly, then nearly slap myself at the dark pause that follows. I haven’t figured out when I’ll be able to see Mom again—and I don’t expect our next visit to be terrifically pleasant.
Because she’s not our mom anymore. Not really, not most of the time. The woman she was is deteriorating, drip by drip.
“Well,” Hunt says, recovering. “You know she’d want me to fatten you up. Let’s get going.”
Hunter takes me to an upscale steakhouse smack dab in the center of the city.
I know his taste in cuisine runs snobbish, so I dressed appropriately in a sensible skirt and faux-silk blouse, but I still feel underdressed.
The people surrounding me look like they belong on a runway—it’s expensive suits and cocktail dresses all around.
The restaurant itself doesn’t help my comfort levels.
It’s bathed with dim amber lighting from low-hanging pendants, dark walnut paneling on the walls, and leather booths the color of old wine.
White tablecloths cover circular tabletops, held down by ornate silverware and candles that flicker in their smoked glass holders.
The tables are spaced far enough apart to guarantee privacy, which speaks to the high-end clientele.
The air’s perfumed with the scents of wine and decadence, and somewhere beneath the low hum of patrons conversing with each other, there’s jazz playing just loudly enough to notice.
My brother gets stopped no less than twice on our way to the table. He’s a recognizable public figure as one of the most successful entrepreneurs in the finance industry; he had a profile in Forbes last year, and occasionally appears in magazines under lists of most eligible bachelors.
I know quite well that Hunter has absolutely no interest in marriage. Neither of us had any good examples of healthy romantic relationships growing up, so I can’t blame him. I’m not overly fond of the thought of tying my fate to another person’s, either.
My ass barely hits my chair before he lays into me. “What are they doing to you at that job of yours?” he demands. “You’re pale, thin, and I’ve seen black holes smaller than the bags under your eyes.”
I roll said eyes. “I work for a high-intensity sports team, Hunt. One that utilizes an unusual amount of data-driven strategy. Data is kind of my thing, and I’m working on my forecasting algorithm.”
He considers this, then gives a curt nod, as if he’ll allow it.
Hunter took on more of a father role than a brother one when we were growing up.
Our mom is a wonderful person and was a great Mom in her heyday, but she still had her problems, and our father didn’t acknowledge me.
Hunter picked up the slack our parents left in ways few others would have, and for that, I’ll forever adore him—even if he is the stereotype for overprotective.
And has his picture next to the word tyrant in the dictionary.
“Is it a boy that’s making you look like this?” he questions, trying and failing to be smooth. “I’ve seen you tired before. This isn’t tired, it’s fucking exhausted.”
Asher briefly flashes through my mind, and my mood sours. The asshole is actually fucking benching me because he’s incapable of understanding simple directions.
“No,” I say, managing to sound sincere. “No boys, no girls, just lots of data work and model-building.”
“How is your program going?” he queries.
I let out a long breath. “It’s a work in progress.
I built the theoretical framework during my masters, but there are so many variables to account for in F1.
The ones giving me the most grief are the human ones—like emotions.
And, as always, turning a theoretical model into a practical system is… complicated.”
“You know I’d buy the framework from you, right? It’d change the game in my world.”
“You already developed your own proprietary trading models,” I point out. I might be smart, but Hunter is an actual genius. He already has changed the game in his world.
“Yes, but it’s nothing like yours—”
“I’m not selling mine,” I say flatly. “It’s not even done. If I were to reformulate it to fit your industry, that’d set me back by months, if not years.” I shake my head. “I want to see if it works in F1 first.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to apply your framework to finance?
In the corporate world, I don’t have to account for whether someone’s having a bad day.
” He makes a face, as if the very thought repulses him.
“Individual emotions are irrelevant because people are just ants in a colony. What matters is what the colony does, and colony behavior is just math. You’re trying to model the individual ant.
That’s an exponentially harder problem.”
“Probably, but that’s not what I want to do with it,” I say bluntly.
Hunter’s eyes narrow. “I’ll match your yearly salary for every month you work on it for me.”
One of my brother’s fatal flaws is he believes in the value of a dollar over anything else. He thinks money will take him everywhere. So far, that theory has yet to be disproven. Nevertheless, “No.”
“Double?”
“Nope.”
“Fine, triple. But that’s my last offer.”
“No!” I snap. “I don’t want a nepo job, and I’m not interested in your money or your offer.”
“You need the money. My smallest properties are three times the size and quality of your entire shitty apartment building.”
“You’re also a fucking multi-millionaire, Hunter.
Of course my living situation isn’t remotely going to stand up to yours.
They’re not comparable, and they probably never will be, and I’m okay with that.
I don’t need insane wealth.” I could’ve been born to it—if I was valued similarly to the rest of my siblings, I should’ve been born to it—but I got the short end of the stick in every way.
I don’t resent that. It built character and taught me how to fight for myself rather than expecting my trust fund to do the fighting for me. I might resent the sheer lack of acknowledgement a little, but not the wealth disparity.
“Fine. We’ll revisit this conversation at a later date.”
We won’t, but I don’t feel any need to say that.
The waiter arrives, takes our orders, and departs. Hunter stares at me with narrowed eyes. I stare at him right back, trying to find a way to ask him for a favor after I’ve just shot him down.
“You’re thinking too loudly.”
I frown. “Excuse me?”
“Your face.” He gestures at me. “It’s being too loud. What is it?”