No one was going to invest millions into faulty tech. But they would invest billions in a program that could not only mimic the best systems on the market, but work as a foundation to increase their reaction time and their smart capabilities. But even I knew then, Veil would only carry us—or me, technically, seeing as how my ex decided profitability and fame was worth more than safety and innovation—so far. Which is why as soon as Veil had pulled in its first billion nearly seven months ago, I made it a point to appoint my best employees on building Phantom—the vehicle that would act as the host for the Veil software. And for the first time, Veil would stand on its own—apart from existing technology.
That is if I can get the fucking thing to work the way it’s supposed to before Global decides to pull back their investment…
Which is also why this bloody gala needs to go off without a hitch. If all else fails, the potential of aligning myself with better, bigger investors will more than help cushion the blow if Global decides to fuck me over.
Chickadee said we only had twelve applications, which doesn’t bode well for the faith in Veil. Yes, we’re still a new, growing company in the eyes of the assholes in Silicon Valley and thebig tech bros, but our success isn’t anything to discount, either. Success that is fully due to the fact I’ve carried this dream and this company on my back for a whole year, despite the claims of my ex who tried to blackmail me into an equal share of Veil upon threat of hacking into my entire system.
I check the virus scan and the systems analysis, the worry prevalent still.
I’d done what I had to—pretended everything was fine, so he’d go home, and then carefully—and legally—crafted the paperwork that would render Robert Stratford as far away from my Veil as possible.
His algorithm may have led to my discovery of my glitch, but Veil was always mine. I’d been building its code long before I met him.
I shouldn’t fear anyone, especially from where I sit. And it’s not that I fearhim; rather, I fear his mind. Genius only comes in two forms—tampered by kindness and generosity, or fueled by egotistical and maniacal obsession.
Robert Stratford’s brain was the latter. And the only thing capable of taming his unhinged genius was a strict hand around the throat.
I shove the thoughts aside as the scans turn up clean. Thankfully.
I get lost in my inbox, going over the hundreds of emails I need to respond to, and barely realize I’ve zoned out until there is a soft knock on the door. I look up, rubbing my eyes.
“Come in.”
I glance to see Oliver, his golden hair swept carefully behind his ears. He glances at the floor at first, his gaze shyly meeting mine.
Some people just have a sort of natural subservience about them. Submission is in their DNA, and most of the time, they either don’t realize it, or they fight against it. And some… theyjust need to be broken to realize who they truly are when the walls come down.
Oliver has that air. That natural spark that calls to the monster inside of me.
But I swore after what happened with my ex that I would not mix business and pleasure again. And I vow to keep it that way.
Oliver saunters towards my desk and carefully pulls out my take-out boxes from the large bag in his arms.
“One BLT with a side of tomato soup, side Caesar, and cranberry buckle.”
“Thank you, Oliver,” I say as he passes me plastic silverware and napkins.
“Of course, Sir.”
He carefully steps back, clutching the bag to his chest.
“Where are you going?” I ask, noting the way his brows are furrowed. He looks worried. Normally I wouldn’t care, but something about his look makes me feel a pang of concern.
“Oh, I was just going to the break room to—”
“Have I done something to upset you?” I ask.
His eyebrows raise. “What? No, of course not, why—”
“Then sit.” I motion to the table in front of the large open window. Usually, it’s scattered with paper and notes, but today it’s bare.
“Stay awhile. Unless…” I open my silverware. “Unless you would rather eat alone.” I catch his gaze flitting to my eyes as if he can’t help himself.
I’m used to people staring at me. Most of the time it is because of my sudden fame and my appearance, but Oliver looks at me as if it’s more than that. Oliver looks at me as if he is trying to discern if I am a vicious predator or if I am a docile housecat. He looks at me as if he is trying to decipher whether or not I can be trusted, and something about that intrigues me all the more.
“No one wants to eat alone,” he says carefully as he takes a seat across from me, in the chair closest to the counters and cabinets.
He doesn’t sit at the top or the bottom, which is telling. It’s as if his body is so tuned in to the absence of a commander, it is like it’s practically begging for direction.
