23. The Blue Screen of Death
23
THE BLUE SCREEN OF DEATH
Downtown Seattle, WA
GRAYSON
The night before Valentine's Day, and I'm watching Rosalind Carpenter try very hard to look like she isn't nervous about something.
Meet Cute's warm lighting softens her features as she twirls pasta around her fork for the third time without actually eating it. The snow continues to fall outside, creating the kind of cozy atmosphere that should feel perfect but somehow feels like the calm before a storm.
"You're drifting,” I observe, watching her fidget with her wine glass.
“Drifting? What’s that?”
"That thing I’ve seen you do—mostly at parties you’ve crashed.” I snort as Roz frowns. I lift my chin. “That thing where you pretend everything's fine while mentally calculating escape routes. By the look on your face, I’d say you’re on…route number nine now?”
Her laugh carries an edge. "Says the man who actually does calculate escape routes. "
"Only for board meetings." I reach across the table, catching her restless hand. "Talk to me. What's wrong?"
She takes a rather large sip of wine instead of answering. I've noticed she's been doing that a lot in the past hour – each time she seems about to say something important, she reaches for her glass instead.
"Nothing's wrong," she says finally. "Everything's perfect. The café, the tables, the way you remembered every couple I told you about..."
"But?"
"But nothing." Another sip. "Pass the wine?"
I do, though something about her tone makes me uneasy. "You know, for someone who specializes in human connection, you're not great at maintaining eye contact right now."
"And for someone who specializes in algorithms, you're surprisingly observant of human behavior." She pours more wine, her vintage-inspired dress catching the string lights in a way that makes her look almost ethereal. "Must be my influence."
"Must be." I watch her take another generous sip. "Though I'm also observing that's your third glass in an hour."
"Fourth. But who's counting?"
"Apparently both of us." I trap her hand again as she reaches for the bottle. "Roz?—"
"Did you know," she interrupts, words already carrying a slight blur, "that successful matches have a seventy-eight percent chance of working out if both parties are slightly buzzed when they meet?"
"I did not know that. Probably because you just made it up."
"Probably." She giggles, the sound so unlike her usual careful control that I'm torn between amusement and concern. "But it sounds good, right? Very... statistical."
"Very." I signal the waiter I hired to bring water. "Though I'm starting to think we should get you home. "
"Why?" She leans forward conspiratorially, nearly knocking over her glass. "Afraid I'll spill more secrets than wine?"
"Do you have secrets to spill?"
She straightens too quickly, swaying slightly. "Everyone has secrets. Even AI-loving tech CEOs who apparently remember every word I've ever said about love."
"Roz—"
"Like how you remembered the chess players!" She waves toward their table, nearly taking out a candle. "And the surgeon and the pianist, and... and..." She blinks. "Why is the room spinning?"
"Because you just drank most of a bottle of very good Italian wine." I stand, moving around to her side of the table. "Come on. Time to go."
"But I haven't told you—" She stops, pressing her lips together like she's physically holding back words.
"Told me what?"
"Nothing. Everything. You look really good in this lighting." She attempts to stand and immediately tilts sideways. "Oops."
I catch her against my chest, steadying her with an arm around her waist. "Need I remind you what happened last time you had too much wine around me?"
"I ruined your shirt." She pats my current shirt clumsily. "This one's safe though. No wine in hand."
"Yet you're still managing to knock my ordered world into disarray.”
"You like it," she mumbles into my shoulder. "You said so. With the tables and the memories and the not using CORA..."
"I did say that." I guide her toward the door, nodding thanks to the waiter who's already calling a car. "Though I'm curious what has you drinking like a startup founder after their first round of funding falls through."
"Big words," she mutters. "Too many words. Why do you use so many words? "
The snow swirls around us as we exit Meet Cute, the city muffled in white. Rosalind leans heavily against me, her heels leaving uneven tracks in the fresh snow.
"I told you I'm fine," she insists as I help her into the car, though her words slur just enough to make it clear she's not.
"Sure," I say, sliding in beside her. "You're the picture of sobriety. I'm shocked the Olympics hasn't called you for a balance beam routine."
"That's gymnastics," she corrects, but the sharp edge she usually reserves for me is blunted by the wine.
As we drive through Seattle's snow-quiet streets, she lets her head fall against my shoulder. The scent of her perfume—that additive vanilla scent—blends with the clean, crisp air from outside.
"This is a terrible idea," I tell her, though I'm not sure if I mean taking her to my place or this whole thing between us.
"You're not wrong," she mumbles.
By the time we reach my building, she's barely upright. I guide her inside and straight to my bedroom, ignoring CORA's helpful suggestions about best guest accommodation protocols.
She makes a vague attempt to wave me off but ends up collapsing onto the bed, her hair fanning out like spilled burnt-reddish ink across my pillows. Something about the sight of her there, all soft fabric and messy curls against my precise décor, makes my stomach tighten.
"You okay?" I ask, pulling the duvet over her.
"M'fine," she mutters before rolling onto her side and falling asleep almost instantly.
I stand there for a moment, watching her chest rise and fall in the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Her face has relaxed in sleep, but something about our evening nags at me – the way she kept almost saying something important, how she drank to avoid whatever conversation she was afraid to have.
Tomorrow is going to be a mess .
I wake to sunlight streaming through the curtains and the faint sound of water running in the ensuite bathroom. For a moment, I'm disoriented, the previous night's events blurring together like a half-loaded page. Then I hear the unmistakable sound of Roz humming—off-key, of course—and everything snaps into focus.
Valentine's Day.
Groaning, I roll out of bed and pad into the kitchen. Cooking isn't exactly in my skill set, but I'm determined to make an effort. No AI, no algorithms, just me and whatever's in the fridge.
It takes me a solid five minutes to figure out how to turn on the stovetop. I crack eggs into a bowl, managing to avoid any shell casualties, and whisk them with the kind of precision that's made me a legend in tech but probably doesn't translate to omelets.
By the time I'm halfway through toasting bread, the kitchen looks like a Jackson Pollock painting.
Still, I'm feeling oddly proud as I arrange the food on two plates. Grabbing a tray, I make my way back to the bedroom.
The bathroom door is ajar, and steam billows out like clouds escaping a factory. Roz's phone vibrates on the bedside table, catching my attention.
Normally, I wouldn't care. But the constant buzzing is hard to ignore.
I set the tray down and pick up her phone, intending to hand it to her. That's when I see the name on the screen: Emily Hanning. And beneath it, a subject line that sends a chill down my spine:
"Exclusive Advance Copy: Rosalind Carpenter’s Heart & Soul Feature in TechCast."
Curiosity is a dangerous thing, but it's one of the few emotions I haven't managed to suppress entirely. My thumb hesitates over the notification before tapping it .
The article opens with a photo of Roz looking polished and professional. Beneath it, the headline reads:
"Matchmaker for the Modern Age: How Rosalind Carpenter Built Seattle's Premier Love Connection Empire."
It's flattering… until it's not.
Halfway through the article, my eyes land on a paragraph that might as well be highlighted in neon:
"Carpenter's most notable success? Matching Jessica Gordon, co-founder of SecureMatch, with her now-fiancé…while still engaged to the company's CEO, Grayson Dixon. Sources confirm Carpenter's decision to keep this match confidential was a strategic move to bolster Heart & Soul's reputation amidst rising competition from tech-driven dating platforms."
The room tilts slightly.
The shower shuts off, and Roz steps out, wrapped in a towel and toweling off her hair. "Is that coffee I smell? Because if so, you might actually be—" She stops mid-sentence when she sees my face.
"What is this?" I hold up her phone, the article still open.
Her smile falters. "Gray, I can explain…"
"So it's true?" My voice is cold, sharp with jagged edges that feel they’re cutting into my own skin. "You matched Jessica with her fiancé. My ex-fiancée. And you kept it quiet. For what? Business?"
"It wasn't like that," she says, stepping closer. "I didn't know who she was at first. And when I found out…"
"You decided it wasn't worth mentioning? Jesus, Roz."
She's silent for a moment, then: "It was a mistake. But it wasn't malicious. You have to believe that."
"Do I?" I set her phone down on the bedside table. "Because right now, all I see is someone who's willing to blur every line for the sake of her career."
Her expression hardens. "That's rich, coming from you. Mr. ' Love is Just an Algorithm.' You've built your entire career on removing the human element from relationships."
"And yet I've never used someone's personal life as leverage," I snap back.
She flinches, and for a moment, I almost regret the words. But the weight of the revelation crushes any chance of reconciliation.
"I need some air." Grabbing my coat, I head for the door.
"Gray, wait?—"
But I don't. The door closes behind me with a finality that feels too heavy for words.
Outside, the snow has stopped falling, leaving the city wrapped in a brittle silence.
I walk aimlessly, the cold biting at my skin, trying to make sense of the mess my life has become.
For a man who's spent his life predicting outcomes, who’s spent most of his career calculating the next step, I sure as shit never saw this one coming.