Chapter 19 Unexpected Variables
Unexpected Variables
Harlee
Iused to believe my future would reveal itself the way a solved equation does.
Clean. Linear. Satisfying. Put in the work.
Show the steps. Arrive at the answer. Lately, it feels less like an equation and more like a system.
One with too many variables to isolate neatly, where behavior matters as much as math.
Where outcomes aren’t just about precision, but about people.
That realization has been sitting with me longer than I’d like to admit.
I still love the math. That part hasn’t changed.
What’s changed is how often I find myself thinking about what happens around the numbers.
How people freeze when money comes up. How anxiety isn’t rooted in ignorance so much as opacity.
Not knowing where you stand. Not trusting the structure holding you up.
I haven’t told anyone this. Some ideas feel too fragile to speak aloud. Naming them feels like responsibility. But I think corporate is starting to grow on me, just a little.
So I carry it quietly as I walk into James Wilde Media Group, The air sharp against my cheeks, the building already awake in that focused, post-coffee hum.
Midterms are closing in. My practicum clock is ticking.
And weeks of executive shadow training have taught me how to move through this place without shrinking.
I don’t hover anymore. I don’t apologize for occupying space I’ve been assigned.
That doesn’t mean I’m immune to distraction.
August is near the glass conference room, sleeves rolled to his tatted forearms, posture relaxed but alert.
He’s talking to someone from marketing, his voice even, unhurried, commanding without pressing.
I’ve learned that’s his tell. When he’s calm, he’s in control.
People lean toward him without realizing they’re doing it. I clock the instinct and keep walking.
The kitchen is quiet except for the low hum of appliances. I rinse my mug, letting routine ground me, when his presence registers behind me. Not touching. Just close enough that my body notices before my brain does.
“Flowers look good on your desk,” he says.
I glance over my shoulder. “Is that feedback or surveillance?”
“Observation,” he replies easily. “You deserved them.”
“Careful,” I say. “People might start thinking you’re flirting with me.”
His mouth curves. "Then they would be correct.”
The words land warm, familiar. I turn back to the sink before I let myself linger in them.
“Cameras,” I remind him.
“I know.” He says with a deep breath, like he's pissed they exist in his own ecosystem.
That’s the problem. He wants to talk about testing boundaries, this mother fucker has been running more tests than a beta app.
He leans against the counter like he belongs there. Like the room was built to accommodate him. “Toronto was fine by the way. You would’ve liked it. You sure you don’t want to come with me next time?”
“You can’t say that, here,” I warn, my eyes darting around the room.
“I can say whatever I want, wherever I want.”
He’s right, and I hate that he is baiting me, again.
Before I can respond, Mateo, from legal, barrels in talking football and momentum and stats I don’t track. August pivots seamlessly, CEO mode sliding into place like armor. I take the out without making it obvious.
My phone buzzes before I reach my desk.
A: Sorry. Did you want to say something?
I don’t want to smile. I do anyway.
Me: I’m working.
A: Damn, that’s sexy.
I roll my eyes, because the flirting is getting ridiculous, and no, I don't want it to stop.
The following Friday tightens into numbers and focus. My brain locks in the way it does when everything aligns. When Virginia’s assistant asks me to drop final reports on 43 before I leave, I don’t hesitate.
That floor used to intimidate me. Now it’s just another layer of the system.
The executive level smells different. Cleaner. Sharper. Like intention. Shadow training taught me how to read places like this. Where to walk. When to speak. How to be present without announcing myself.
Sadie is on a call when I step in. I place the folder on her desk, precise, professional. She mouths thank you. Task complete.
I should leave.
I don't.
Instead I find myself down the hall, where a door is cracked open. August's voice carries through it, stripped of polish.
“Mom, I'm not avoiding you. I'm managing… No, I hear you. I just—yes. I will. Okay. Yes, ma'am.”
There is a pause afterward. Heavy. The kind that fills a room even through a crack in the door. He exhales like something personal just demanded a calendar invite and didn't care about the rest of his day.
I turn to go and collide with him as the door opens fully.
Instinct takes over. My hands brace against his chest. Solid. Familiar. He steadies my waist, just as automatic.
He smells like coffee.
I love coffee.
He looks different up close. Not polished. Not performing. Just… tight around the edges. The easy-going smile he had the day we met in the park is there, it's just… hidden.
“You’re still here,” he says, like it’s an observation and not a question.
“Sadie needed the revised reports,” I reply. “I figured I’d drop them instead of clogging her inbox.”
He nods once, distracted. His mind is elsewhere. I can see it.
We stand there for a beat too long.
“Can I ask you something,” he says finally, lowering his voice. Not secretive. Intentional.
I straighten. “Sure.”
“When you’re looking at data,” he says, “how often do you trust your first reaction?”
I blink. “Depends. If it’s loud, never. If it’s quiet…” I shrug. “Usually.”
His mouth curves, just slightly. “That tracks.”
He glances down the hallway, quick and habitual, the way people do when they’ve spent enough time in offices to know walls have ears.
Fluorescent lights hum overhead. Someone coughs two offices over.
A Slack notification chimes faintly from an empty desk, the sound carrying farther than it should.
Then he looks back at me. No one’s paying attention. No one ever is.
“I’ve got a set of vendor reports that don't sit right with me,” he says. “Nothing is glaringly wrong. But something is… misaligned.”
My interest piques and I follow him back into his office. The quite hum of after 6pm left on the other side of the threshold.
“What do you want me to look for?”
He holds my gaze. Steady. Serious.
“I’ve got a set of vendor reports that don’t sit right with me,” he says. “Nothing is glaringly wrong. But something is… misaligned.”
My interest sharpens instantly, curiosity sliding in where nerves used to live. I follow him back into his office, the quiet hum of after six folding shut behind us like a door I probably shouldn’t be stepping through this easily.
“What do you want me to look for?”
He steps into his office, not going far—just enough to clear the doorway. I follow, the door clicking softly shut behind me.
He doesn’t reach for anything.
Just turns to face me, attention fixed.
“Start with the timelines,” he says. “Delivery dates. Payment cycles. See if anything feels… too clean. Too consistent. Or the opposite—subtle gaps. Things that shouldn’t line up, but do.”
I step closer, instinctively, like the answer might be written somewhere between us instead of on a page. My brain latches onto it anyway, already pulling threads together.
“So you’re not looking for errors,” I murmur. “You’re looking for intention.”
A flicker crosses his face—approval, maybe.
“Exactly.”
My pulse ticks up.
Not because of him.
Because this? This is my lane.
He doesn’t move, just holds my gaze—steady, deliberate.
“Patterns. Intent. Anything that feels off to you.”
“That’s vague,” I say, folding my arms—half thinking, half grounding myself, because I’m suddenly very aware it’s just the two of us in here. The closed door. The quiet.
“It’s honest,” he replies, voice low, certain. “Most real hypotheses are.” A beat. “And it’s off the record.”
That should make me pause.
It does.
Just… not for the reason it probably should.
Because underneath the caution, there’s something else.
Quieter. Sharper.
Excitement.
He didn’t pass this down a chain. Didn’t loop in a senior analyst. Didn’t make it official.
He brought it to me.
Not because he has to.
Because he thinks I’ll see something others won’t.
And that lands deeper than I expect.
I hesitate—just long enough for my brain to run the optics like a spreadsheet.
“I don’t want this to look like—”
“It won’t,” he cuts in, gentle but firm. “This isn’t an assignment. It’s a favor. And you can say no.”
The funny thing is… I know that.
He means it.
But I also know something else.
I won’t.
And he knows that, too.
“Okay,” I say instead. “Send me what you have.”
Something shifts in him.
Not big. Just a fraction. A quiet release in his shoulders, like a wire pulled too tight finally easing.
“I trust your instincts,” he says. “Even if it’s small—I want to know.”
That’s when it clicks.
This isn’t just trust.
Trust is careful. Measured. Earned over time.
This?
This is recognition.
The kind that comes before proof.
Neither of us moves.
The conversation is over. The work part, anyway. The other part—the quiet gravity pulling us back to the same point in the room—is still very much here.
“You look tired,” I say.
He does. The kind that settles around the eyes, softened by late nights and too many decisions.
“I am.” His gaze shifts when it finds me again. Less executive. More… something darker. “But seeing you helps.”
“That’s not safe territory,” I reply, softer now.
“I know.”
He steps closer.
And this time… he doesn’t stop as far away.
The space between us shrinks until I feel it—him—before he even touches me. Heat. Presence. The sheer fact of him. Tall enough that I have to tilt my head just to hold his gaze.
It does something to my body. Something immediate. Uninvited.
My back brushes the door.
Right. Closed.
Nowhere to go.
“Tell me to stop.”