Chapter 7
seven
. . .
Maci
Encrypted Voicemail: Rune
Most games don’t tell you where you’re going. They just make it interesting enough that you want to find out.
How can my hands be shaking when I’m carrying a thirty-pound box? I squeeze it tighter as the elevator opens directly into a penthouse.
Not a hallway.
Not a lobby.
Not some normal human entryway where a person can gather herself before stepping into a private space.
Nope.
The doors slide open, and suddenly I'm standing inside Witt O'Ryan's home. Actually, Dara didn’t say he lived here. She said the company owned it.
Suddenly my two suitcases, three boxes, a backpack stuffed with cables, are no longer the most interesting part of my day.
For a second, all I can do is stare.
The penthouse is insane in the way only ridiculous wealth can be insane.
Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around the living area, showing off the Austin skyline like the city personally agreed to be his screensaver.
The furniture is expensive but minimal, all clean lines and dark fabric and smooth wood surfaces that look like nobody has ever spilled coffee, dropped a controller, or eaten nachos while gaming at two in the morning.
But the longer I stand there, the more I notice details that have nothing to do with money.
The remotes are lined in a perfect row on the coffee table, exactly parallel to the edge.
Coasters sit centered on each side table even though no drinks are anywhere near them.
There are labels on the inside of the pantry shelves, and when I peek into the kitchen, every glass is arranged by height, and every mug is black, identical, and facing the same direction.
I don't know whether to be impressed or terrified.
Maybe both.
The place feels like a luxury hotel built by a man who doesn't trust chaos.
I set my box labeled MORE IMPORTANT STUFF near the island because every surface looks too expensive to touch.
Then I immediately feel guilty because my cardboard box ruins the entire aesthetic.
If this penthouse were a game level, my stuff would be the random clutter the designers forgot to render properly.
Still, Dara gave me the code. Dara seemed like the kind of woman who could organize a hostile takeover before lunch and still remember her dry cleaning ticket.
So, I choose to trust Dara. This place obviously doesn’t have someone living here. It’s too sterile. Too untouched. Or there’s a daily maid, only used when visiting CEO’s come for a meeting.
The guest suite is bigger than my bedroom at home, which feels unnecessary and also amazing.
There are soft white sheets, a sitting area, a bathroom with a shower big enough to host a team meeting, and a closet that looks like it could store my entire life with room left over for emotional baggage.
I should probably be overwhelmed, but mostly I'm too exhausted to process anything beyond the fact that I made it to Austin.
Tomorrow I start at Synatrix.
Tomorrow I work for Witt O'Ryan.
Tomorrow my entire life changes.
Tonight, I need a shower before I collapse.
By the time I step out of the bathroom, my hair is wet, my pajamas are on, and my brain is doing the thing where it refuses to shut down even though my body is begging for mercy.
I should go straight to bed. I should sleep like a responsible adult with a first day of work tomorrow.
Instead, I realize I left my pixel-heart mug on the kitchen counter, and for reasons I can't explain, retrieving it feels urgent.
Maybe because it's mine.
Maybe because everything in this penthouse is so perfectly Witt that I need proof I exist here too.
I pad down the hallway barefoot, still towel-drying the ends of my hair, and stop cold when I reach the kitchen.
Witt O'Ryan is standing beside the island.
In shorts.
And an Armadillos tank top.
Sweating.
I have seen this man in a suit. I have sat across from him during an interview while he calmly dissected my ideas like a surgeon with a spreadsheet. I have mentally labeled him brilliant, intimidating, strange, and possibly allergic to unnecessary conversation.
None of those labels prepared me for bare legs, broad shoulders, and the kind of forearms that make a woman forget her own name.
He's not bulky in a gym-rat way. He's lean and defined, like someone who doesn't care about looking strong but somehow is anyway.
The soft cotton of his T-shirt stretches across his chest, and the sight of him standing in his kitchen like this—casual, quiet, real—scrambles every professional thought I've ever had.
He stares at me. Well, he looks just beyond my ear, not really looking me in the eye.
I stare at him. My stomach doing somersaults.
"I'm sorry," I blurt, clutching the towel against my chest like it's some kind of legal document. "Dara gave me the code. I can leave. I mean, not permanently. Or permanently, if this is weird. I can get a hotel."
His gaze flicks to my mug.
Then my box.
Then me. His focus on my legs moves up and stops at my shoulders. "No." He says, sharp and immediate.
My heart bumps against my ribs.
"No?"
"No, you don't need to leave." His answer comes fast, almost too fast, but he still doesn’t step around the island. He stays planted there like I’m a sudden pop-up window in the middle of a system update, unexpected and impossible to ignore.
"Okay." I tuck a damp strand of hair behind my ear, which does absolutely nothing because the entire thing falls right back into my face.
The kitchen is too quiet, too spotless, too expensive, and I am standing in the middle of it in pajamas on the night before my first day at the biggest job of my life.
Naturally, my mouth keeps going. "Because you look like someone broke into your house and reorganized your organs. "
His brow furrows like he’s actually testing the sentence for accuracy instead of recognizing it as panic-disguised-as-humor.
"That's not anatomically possible."
I bite my lip to keep from smiling, because of course that’s the part he focuses on. "Right."
His attention shifts back to my box, and I become painfully aware of the thick black marker scrawled across the side. In this kitchen, where every mug faces the same direction and every surface looks untouched, my packing system feels less quirky and more like evidence against me.
"Why is it labeled More Important Stuff?"
"Because Important Stuff was already full."
His gaze drops to the box again. It's like watching someone run a diagnostic on a cardboard container. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. I have no idea if I've earned points for honesty or just made the world's smartest man question my sanity.
"That doesn't answer the question."
"It answers it enough."
His mouth twitches, barely there, but enough that the tightness in my shoulders eases a fraction. Maybe I haven’t ruined the penthouse. Maybe I haven’t ruined my first day before it even starts. Maybe Witt O’Ryan is capable of finding cardboard-box chaos mildly entertaining.
Barely.
But I see it.
For some reason, that tiny almost-smile feels like winning a secret achievement.
I step farther into the kitchen and grab my mug from the counter.
The second my fingers curl around it, I become painfully aware of the row of identical black mugs behind me.
Mine looks ridiculous next to them, white with tiny pixel hearts and one small chip near the handle from when I dropped it during a tournament stream two years ago.
"I'll keep this in my room," I say.
"Why?"
"Because it looks out of place."
He glances at the mug. Then, with the driest tone I've ever heard, says, "You haven't met my sister Noelle."
I laugh before I can stop myself.
The sound bounces through the kitchen, too loud in his quiet space, and I immediately press my lips together. But Witt doesn't look annoyed. He looks...curious. Like my laugh is a bug in the system he hasn't decided whether to patch or study.
"She decorated?" I ask.
"Parts of it."
"Which parts?"
"The parts with any color. She’ll love it."
I look around and notice a throw blanket draped over one chair, a framed photo on the shelf, and a small ceramic football painted with what looks like tiny handprints.
"Let me guess. You didn't choose the tiny football."
"No."
"But you kept it."
"My nephew made it."
His answer is so simple it shouldn't affect me, but it does anyway.
Because suddenly the penthouse feels less like a billionaire's perfectly controlled bunker and more like a place his family has slowly invaded on purpose.
The mug rows and labeled shelves are Witt.
The colorful blanket and tiny handprint football are the people who love him refusing to let him disappear completely into systems and silence.
Something in my chest softens.
"With most of your family working in the same place, you must be close with them.”
He reaches for one of his black mugs and shifts it half an inch to the left before answering. "They're loud."
"That wasn't what I said."
"I know."
A smile pulls at my mouth. “So that's a yes?"
"Unfortunately."
I laugh again, quieter this time, and lean against the opposite side of the island. He's still standing there like he isn't sure whether this is a conversation or a security breach. I should excuse myself and go to bed, but something about him makes me want to stay a little longer.
Maybe it's the mystery.
Maybe it's the quiet.
Maybe it's the fact that he looks nothing like the untouchable genius who interviewed me and everything like a man who was caught off guard in his own kitchen.
"I really am sorry if this messes up your routine," I say. "Dara made it sound like it was a place to stay for visitors."
"I live here."
From the interview alone, I think Witt O’Ryan is particular and like any good coder or gamer believes everything has its place and if it doesn’t, something breaks.
“Oh, I didn’t know,” I say, clutching the towel tighter around my body. Just get me out of here.
“I have my own section. But I do use this space."
"It doesn’t look lived in, even the mugs don’t look like they’ve been touched."
His eyes narrow slightly. "There's a correct place for them."
"I'm sure there is."
This time the almost-smile lasts a second longer and his eyes drift over my bare shoulders.
Dangerous, not because he's my boss. Although that's a big, flashing warning sign.
Because there is something strangely compelling about a man who says exactly what he means and nothing extra.
No flirting. No performance. No empty charm.
Just Witt, standing in front of me with damp-looking hair, an Armadillos shirt, and an expression like my presence has created a problem he hasn't decided how to solve.
"I'll be out of your way as soon as I find a place," I promise.
"You start tomorrow."
I crack a smile. "That's generally how jobs work."
"You need sleep,” he says with a firm voice, but not cold. Almost concerned like he’s concerned that I won’t be able to wake up for my first day on the job.
"You're right," I say, lifting my mug. "Goodnight, Mr. O'Ryan."
"Witt."
My breath catches for no reason at all. "What?"
"Mr. O'Ryan is inefficient. More syllables.”
I press my lips together. "Of course,” I say thinking Mr. O’Ryan doesn’t waste words or syllables—five syllables to one.
"Goodnight, Witt."
His name feels different out loud. Too intimate for a man I barely know.
His gaze holds just beyond my ear for one quiet second, before he nods. "Goodnight, Maci."
I make it all the way back to the guest room before I let out the breath stuck in my chest.
Then I shut the door, set my mug on the nightstand, and climb into bed like that will somehow force my brain to cooperate.
It doesn't.
I stare at the ceiling while Austin glows beyond the window and tomorrow waits on the other side of midnight. I should be thinking about Synatrix. About my new job. About the fact that I have to prove I belong in a company full of people smarter, faster, and probably better prepared than I am.
Instead, my mind keeps replaying the same impossible image.
Witt O'Ryan in low-slung shorts and an Armadillos tank.
Quiet.
Ripped.
Mysterious.
Suddenly, this massive penthouse seems smaller than it did an hour ago.