Chapter 8
eight
. . .
Witt
The difference between intelligence and expertise is simple. Intelligence solves problems. Expertise knows which problems matter.
I leave the penthouse at five in the morning which is normally when I get up.
I usually arrive at the office by seven, but none of it matters.
Because sometime around midnight, my brain decided replaying the image of Maci Hart standing barefoot in my kitchen was significantly more important than sleep.
By two a.m., I was irritated.
By four a.m., I was irritated and awake.
By four-thirty, I gave up, worked out and was in my office by five-thirty.
The solution is obvious—distance.
People are significantly less distracting when they're not standing in your kitchen wrapped in a towel.
The logic is flawless.
Unfortunately, it only works until eight-fifteen when Dara appears in my doorway.
"Your new employee is here."
I continue reading an acquisition proposal.
"Good."
"She asked where to report."
"Human Resources."
Dara doesn't move.
I glance up. She's staring at me.
"What?"
"You're hiding."
Dara is like a dog who won’t give up. "I’m working."
"You're hiding while working."
I return my attention to the proposal.
Dara sighs dramatically. "Fine. Be weird."
She finally leaves, but unfortunately, forty-five minutes later she's back. This time with Maci.
I immediately stop reading, not because I want to. Because my brain does it automatically.
Annoying.
"Maci Hart," Dara announces like she's introducing a heavyweight boxer.
Maci smiles.
"Good morning."
Her hair is dry today, falling over one shoulder in soft waves. She's wearing dark slacks and a fitted blouse and somehow looks more confident on her first day than most people do after five years.
Interesting.
I stand.
"Tour."
Maci blinks. "Tour?"
"Your first day."
"Oh."
Something about her expression makes me want to laugh.
I don't. Mostly because I never laugh.
"Follow me."
The tour takes thirty-seven minutes, and it should be done in twenty minutes flat.
Why? People keep interrupting.
The first stop is Sutton's office. She immediately stands when we enter. "You must be Maci."
Maci shakes her hand.
Sutton smiles warmly. “Welcome to the chaos."
"It's nice to meet you. I’m interested to learn how we can work together."
Sutton taps on the keyboard before looking up. “There are overlaps but Synatrix is its own company. He convinced me to be the first professional team to sign up for the e-sports league and it’s paying off. You’re in good hands with my little brother.”
Sutton’s gaze flicks from me to Maci, then back again, too quick to be casual and too knowing to be harmless. I recognize that look. It’s the same one she gives Greyson when she has already reached a conclusion and is waiting for the rest of us to catch up. I do not intend to catch up.
I gesture toward the door. "We have several more stops," I tell Maci, moving before Sutton can turn whatever she just noticed into words.
J.D. is next. He spends five minutes talking about football, three minutes talking about gaming, and somehow works a barbecue invitation into the conversation.
Matt is worse.
Matt asks thoughtful questions about why she wanted to work at Synatrix.
Matt notices things.
Matt studies both of us with the same expression he uses when diagnosing quarterback problems.
I leave his office immediately.
"Do they always do that?" Maci asks.
"Do what?"
"Adopt people."
I think about my family. The ones she hasn’t met yet are even more nurturing—Noelle, Parker and Birdie.
Unfortunately, the answer is obvious. "Yes."
She smiles.
I don't understand why that makes me feel oddly relieved.
We tour the stadium, the gaming complex, the coding room, the cafeteria, and the marketing division.
Maci takes in all of it with quick, efficient glances, but not passively.
She notices the monitor layouts in the coding room, the flow of people through the cafeteria, the way the gaming complex is arranged for spectators as much as players.
Her attention keeps shifting, cataloging and connecting.
I recognize the behavior because I do the same thing.
The final stop is the executive offices, and I realize Maci’s office is directly across from Dara’s and diagonal from mine.
I may have to change that.
Currently occupied by one desk, two monitors, and approximately zero personality.
Maci steps inside and slowly turns in a circle.
Her fingers brush the edge of the desk first, then hover near the back of the chair without touching it, as if she is verifying the room is real before she lets herself claim it.
Her gaze moves from the monitors to the window, then to the blank walls, and something in her posture shifts.
Shoulders straightening. Chin lifting. Like her brain has already started filling the empty space with plans.
"This is mine?"
"Yes."
Her expression shifts before she can hide it, and I catch every stage: wonder first, then excitement, then disbelief settling softly around the edges. She swallows once and looks back at the room like it might disappear if she blinks too long.
I recognize all three because I saw the same combination in the mirror when I built my first office.
I hand her a tablet.
"Email."
She takes it. Although she looks at the ten thousand dollars of equipment on her desk.
"Logins and access permissions. You have carte blanche with a few exceptions."
Then I place a final folder on her desk. "This is a problem."
She looks down at the folder and back at me.
"Good morning to you too."
I ignore that. "Dara can help if you need anything."
She opens the folder. "What is this?"
"A problem I don't have time to solve."
Technically true.
Mostly true.
The issue isn't gaming.
It's our streaming platform.
User watch time has been declining for six consecutive weeks despite viewership increasing. Nobody can identify why.
The analytics team thinks it's a content problem.
The content team thinks it's an interface problem.
The platform team thinks it's a user behavior problem.
They're all wrong.
I just don't know how.
"I thought I was hired for gaming."
"You were.”
"Then why am I looking at streaming analytics?"
I shrug.
"Problems don't care about job descriptions."
"Or maybe you think I can't solve gaming problems yet."
I pause. "Interesting."
Her eyes narrow. She knows exactly what I’m doing, challenging her on day one. "That's not a denial."
No, it’s not and I leave before she can argue.
Three hours later, I'm reviewing licensing contracts for professional basketball teams when Dara appears again. And at this point I should install a revolving door.
"What?"
"She solved it."
I don't look up. "Impossible."
"That's what I said." Her voice carries a trace of disbelief.
Now I look up.
Dara grins. "She solved it. Or at least she thinks she did. She nearly attacked me as I walked to the marketing department."
Slowly, I flip the contract closed, thinking there’s no way. There hasn’t been enough time. "What did she find?"
"Go ask her."
I immediately stand and stride to Maci’s office and the door is open.
She's sitting cross-legged in her chair, studying data on one monitor while eating pretzels with the concentration of someone diffusing a bomb.
She doesn't notice me immediately. Interesting, most people notice me or feel my presence. I’m as tall as my brothers, maybe leaner.
I knock against the frame.
Her head lifts. "Oh."
"That was quick."
One shoulder rises. "You gave me a problem."
As if that explains everything.
My gaze drifts around the office, gathering information about my new employee.
There is almost nothing here.
A notebook.
A coffee mug.
A small, framed photograph.
That's it.
No decorations.
No clutter.
No unnecessary objects—just the way I like it.
The photo catches my attention. Several people stand together smiling at the camera and I assume it’s her family. One of them is in a baseball uniform.
"You solved it?"
Maci nods. "Mostly."
"Explain." I pull up a chair.
She rotates one monitor toward me. "The problem isn't content."
"Agreed."
"It isn't user behavior either."
"Agreed."
She points toward a graph. "The streaming recommendation engine was updated seven weeks ago."
I nod. "It was."
"The algorithm became too accurate." Maci grins.
"I’m listening." Finally, someone that sees the big picture.
"When users open the platform, they immediately find exactly what they came for."
I wait.
"They watch it."
Still waiting.
"Then they leave."
My pulse kicks once.
Because that's interesting—a pattern.
She continues.
"Your previous recommendation system wasn't as efficient. Users spent more time browsing. They discovered content accidentally. They clicked unrelated streams."
She points toward another graph.
"Now they get exactly what they want within seconds."
The realization lands immediately. "They stop exploring."
"Exactly.”
I lean back, amazed. And believe me I don’t use that word lightly. Am I more amazed that I didn’t think about the algorithm update? Or that she did in less than three hours?
The recommendation engine solved the problem for users to find exactly what they want so they wouldn’t change click the menu button and go to another streaming app, but our engagement fell.
The platform became too efficient.
I study her as Maci reaches for another pretzel.
"I know I wasn't hired for systems architecture."
"No."
"But systems are systems." The pretzel disappears. "If people are involved, patterns exist."
Something about that sentence feels familiar.
I ignore it.
Because she just solved a six-week problem in under three hours.
That's significantly more important.
"You were testing me."
Not a question, a statement. I don't bother denying it.
"Yes."
Her grin grows."I thought so."
"You solved it."
"You hired the best. You said I solved it like you were surprised."
"I am."
Her smile disappears. "Good to know."
Her confidence should be getting on my nerves, instead, it makes me want to smile.
I watch her open the bottom drawer and there are cords, snacks and energy drinks. She’s a gamer.
"We'll see."
She points a pretzel at me. "I intend to earn every penny or at least every pretzel." A giggle catches in her throat.
The statement surprises me, not because she’s cocky about her skills but that she believes in her skills.
I find myself nodding. "That’s what I expect."
Something softens briefly between us. Not awkward or uncomfortable, just a quiet understanding.
As I’m leaving, she says, "You must have left early."
My brain immediately trips. "What?"
"This morning." She gestures vaguely.
"I left the penthouse at six."
I freeze, internally, hoping I don’t show it on the outside too.
"You were already gone."
I nod.
The reason I left ninety minutes early.
The reason I spent the morning avoiding my own employee.
The reason my coffee consumption reached medically questionable levels.
Her.
The answer leaves my mouth automatically. "Can't make billions while sleeping,” I joke, unsuccessful.
Maci stares at me for a beat too long and I have to look away. Looking into someone’s eyes is painful for me. Eyes tell a story that sometimes you don’t want the world to know.
"Actually, I think once you have enough billions, you probably can."
It takes a hot minute, but suddenly a laugh escapes me.
A real one.
Unexpected.
Uncontrolled.
The sound surprises both of us.
Maci's eyes widen. Mine probably do too.
Sure, I’ve laughed many times. My brothers try their hardest to get on my nerves until they get me to smile or laugh.
But the noise that just left my body was free and unfiltered.
I honestly can't remember the last time I laughed during a workday. Or the last time someone outside my family was responsible for it.
And if Dara was here right now, I’m positive she would document the occasion in a company email.