Chapter 2 The Match
VIVIEN
I don't believe in cosmic signs, algorithmic fate, or soulmate anything. I believe in patterns, systems, and human error dressed up as hope.
If love exists, and I'm not convinced it does, it doesn't arrive on time or wrapped in poetry. It shows up late, red-flagged, and carrying enough emotional debt to crash your internal server.
Tonight I'm not looking for love. I'm looking for relief.
It's 3:08 a.m. and my brain won't shut up. I've rewritten the same paragraph twice, cleared my inbox, and reorganized my desktop folders for the second time this week. The Hammond audit report I'm supposed to be finalizing stares back at me like it knows I'm faking focus.
Numbers that don't add up and patterns that feel deliberately obscured, when I should be focusing on the promotion I need instead of chasing shadows.
I need something to quiet the circuits. I've tried meditation. I've tried melatonin. Neither worked.
I need sex. The one that stops my brain from overthinking.
My apartment reflects my state of mind. Everything in its place, surfaces clear, books alphabetized by author. The kind of order that feels like armor against chaos. Even my throw pillows sit at precise angles on the couch where I've been camping for the past three hours.
Insomnia and I have an understanding. It visits when my brain won't stop cataloging problems I can't solve at 3 a.m. Tonight, it brought company in the form of memories of my ex, who decided three years together weren't worth waiting through one more deployment.
Funny how he managed to find someone worth marrying six months after he left me.
Someone who apparently didn't make him feel trapped or missing out. His words, not mine.
That was two years ago, and it still stings more than I care to admit. Since then, I've perfected the art of not needing anyone for longer than a night.
I don't do relationships anymore. I don't do hope or vulnerability or the particular brand of disappointment that comes from being someone's practice round.
It hurts too much when it ends, and it always ends.
What I do instead is control. Clear boundaries with exit strategies built into the foundation.
When I need release, I reach for men who speak the same pre-agreed language.
Dominant, decisive, controlled. The kind who read tension like a second skin and take the lead without needing permission or apology.
They're not looking for a long-term sub, and I'm not looking beyond a night, maybe two, if the chemistry holds.
It's not about rituals or protocol. It's about finding someone sane. Someone who knows what they want and how to ask for it. Two bodies, one need. No expectations. No fallout.
So I reopen the dating app.
I scroll through the usual late-night lineup, cataloging red flags like I'm tracking anomalies.
Bankers with fragile egos get an immediate pass.
Teachers with vague savior complexes earn a hard no.
A dentist who definitely cropped someone out of his second photo makes me wonder what else he's hiding.
Then I see him.
Luke.
One photo in warm lighting. One outdoors, sleeves rolled.
One with a dog that probably isn't his, though it feels authentic enough to avoid triggering alarms. Job title: “Data infrastructure consultant.” Possibly IT, possibly tech support.
It doesn't scream crypto, which is rare enough to warrant a pause.
His bio reads: Here to choose, no interest in chase. Looking for someone who doesn't waste time.
I snort. It's almost too well-pitched. Confident without arrogance. Clean grammar, short sentences. It's as if someone had studied what women respond to and hit the tone with surgical precision.
I should swipe left. It feels calculated.
That's what gets me. It's perfect. Suspiciously so. Dominant, discreet. As if he knew exactly which words to use to catch my attention.
Usually, I can spot red flags in ten seconds flat. This one? It's quiet. Too quiet.
Here's the thing, he's not promising me the moon or pretending we're going to fall in love over coffee. He's not selling me a fantasy. He's stating facts. No chase, no waste of time. That's refreshingly upfront.
Still, no gym mirror. No hiking epiphany on Machu Picchu. No “looking for a queen to build my empire.” That alone bumps him into the 90th percentile.
My thumb hovers.
Most men want to convince me they're special. This one seems to know he doesn't need to be. Hopefully, he knows what to do with that athletic body.
I swipe right.
The match is instant.
A message pops up ten seconds later.
Luke: That was fast.
I roll my eyes, though there's a flutter in my chest I don't want to acknowledge. Men always assume speed means interest. It doesn't. It means I made a decision, and I haven't decided yet if it was a good one.
Maybe that's why I'm still staring at his photo, looking for tells I might have missed.
I type. Delete. Try again. My fingers feel clumsy, which is ridiculous.
Vivien: You got my attention.
Send.
I lock the phone and drop it face down on the coffee table. I pretend to read the report I've been trying to finish since lunch. Nineteen minutes left to finish it. I'll wait twenty minutes before letting myself check for a reply.
Instead, I fall asleep on the couch. I wake up with dried drool on yesterday's draft and the kind of spinal betrayal that feels personal. The sun is up, and the document is a lost cause. Great, now I have to reprint this mess before Simon, my manager, sees it.
When I check the app, there’s one new message.
Luke: Tomorrow night works for you?
I stare at the screen. My pulse quickens, betraying me. There's something about his directness that cuts straight through my usual defenses. Just a question that skips straight to meeting in person instead of endless texting that leads nowhere.
Which, annoyingly, I appreciate.
It's not romance, I tell myself. It's not a connection. It's a clean hit of potential.
And after the week I've had? I want that. Something to cut through the static. Something physical, fast, controlled. Something that might make me forget how tired I am of being careful all the time.
So I remind myself of the mantra I've lived by. Keep it light. Keep it surface. Keep your heart five steps behind your body.
Vivien: I finish work around seven. Midtown. Your move.
Five minutes later, as I'm biting into a piece of toast, the reply comes in.
Luke: Place on 45th. No signage. Good lighting. 7:30?
My heart does this stupid little skip. I don't recognize the place, though the message is direct. No emoji, no unnecessary question marks. He's not asking if I want to meet, he's asking where and when.
The confidence should annoy me. Instead, it makes my stomach flutter in a way I haven't felt in months.
Vivien: See you there.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself, then immediately want to throw my phone across the room. Three words. I sent three words to a man I don't know, and now I'm committed to meeting him tonight.
This is either going to be precisely what I need or a spectacular mistake.
I shoot a text to Eloise about tonight. The deluge of emojis that follows could power a mid-tier startup.
She's practically vibrating through the screen with excitement, firing off rapid questions about what I'm wearing, where we're going, and whether I've googled him yet.
Her enthusiasm is infectious, and despite my attempts to stay rational about this, I find myself grinning at my phone like a teenager.
If she weren't my best friend, I'd accuse her of harvesting my suffering for sport.
The truth is, having someone this excited for me feels good. Better than I want to admit.
I choose a black dress with clean lines, soft fabric, and a structure that's just enough to look intentional and to leave something to the imagination. It rides the line between elegant and unapproachable, which is where I live.
I wear it under a blazer to the office. Low heels that I'll swap for the kind that signal 'don't mistake me for sensible' after work.
I make it into the office at 9:12 a.m. Coffee in one hand, reprinted report in the other. The reception smells like burnt toast and regulatory dread. My inbox is already groaning.
“Vivien,” Simon says, appearing at my door with that too-bright smile that usually means trouble. “Tell me you're not disappearing early tonight.”
I look up from logging into my system. “Why?”
“Procurement dumped an audit on us. Last minute. It's a mess.”
“Of course it is.” I keep my tone dry while pulling up my task queue. “I've got plans though.”
He raises an eyebrow, leaning against my doorframe like he owns it. “Plans? As in actual social engagement plans? Are you feeling okay?”
“It's a date.”
That catches him off guard. His grin shifts into something that feels more calculating than genuine. “Well, damn. Should I pretend I'm not surprised?”
“You probably should.”
Simon's the kind of manager who mistakes boundary-pushing for leadership. He delegates by crisis, takes credit for solutions, and has a way of making simple requests feel like personal favors you owe him.
“Want me to let you slip out early?” he asks, and there's something in his tone that makes me pause. This generosity feels uncharacteristic.
“I'll clear the queue by six.” I pause, then add, “After that, I'm off the grid.”
Simon nods, still watching me with that measuring look. “Noted. Go get 'em.”
He salutes me with his coffee and disappears, though I catch him glancing back at my screen before he turns his back.
I refocus on the work and open the first flagged anomaly of the day.
The Hammond audit sprawls across three monitors, financial transfers, account classifications, and timestamps that should align, yet don't quite. The microsecond discrepancies could be system lag or data processing delays.
They could be. Something feels off, though.
I pull the transfer logs into a spreadsheet and cross-reference them with the original merger documentation. Pattern recognition is muscle memory now. Numbers tell stories if you know how to listen.
The first irregularity appears in dormant account activity.
Account 4471-B shows a single transaction, $2.
3 million transferred, then immediately reclassified under a different asset category.
The timestamp indicates the event occurred during scheduled maintenance windows, when most monitoring would be offline.
Smart. Not smart enough.
I trace the reclassification through the system architecture. The money didn't disappear; it got repackaged. Clean. Professional. The kind of work that requires intimate knowledge of both the transfer protocols and the audit schedule.
I flag it for deeper analysis and make notes in my secure folder. Three more transactions follow the same pattern over the past six months. Different amounts, different accounts, same methodology.
Someone with system access has been very busy.
By lunch, I've identified seven anomalies that shouldn't exist in a legitimate merger. Each one isolated, each one designed to slip past standard review protocols. Taken individually, they look like clerical errors. Together, they form a pattern.
I reach for my mug and take a sip. Oh no, I forgot my coffee and now it's cold.
This is why I love my job. I don't get bored by numbers. I get curious. Sometimes getting completely absorbed by the chase.
By 6:30 p.m., I've documented the anomalies and saved everything to my encrypted drive. The patterns are solid, though I need more time to understand what they mean. Tomorrow's problem if I want to make my appointment on time.
I grab my coat and the small bag with my evening shoes. In the bathroom, I swap my sensible flats for heels that add three inches and change my entire posture. A quick touch-up of lipstick, a shake of my hair to loosen the day's precision.
Time to go.