Page 2

The elevator deposits me on the fourteenth floor. Nate is exactly where I expect him—hunched over his glass desk, shirt sleeves rolled, glasses sliding down his nose as he studies a set of blueprints with religious intensity.

Across from him, Jace has claimed the leather sofa, one long leg stretched out while he scrolls through his phone. Judging by the grin on his face, he's either found something entertaining or something expensive.

With Jace, it's usually both.

“You’re late,” Nate mutters without looking up.

"Stopped by testing," I say, leaning against the doorframe. "Your algorithm missed something."

Nate looks up. "What?"

"The volunteer plateaued; her body was responding, but her mind just wouldn't shut off long enough to let her enjoy it. She needed someone to take control, give her permission to stop thinking and just feel. No amount of increased stimulation would've accomplished that."

“BRÉVÉ, then?”

Jace’s lips curl. “Now that’s research I can support.”

Nate doesn’t look at him. “Your fantasies aren’t part of our protocols.”

I move to the desk, tracing the edge of the blueprints. “The measurements aren’t wrong. But desire doesn’t live in metrics.”

Nate's pen stills. "We need to account for submission preferences during screening." He makes a note. "We're matching people based on physical responses without considering how they experience pleasure."

"Exactly."

“SOLAÉ: Anticipating desire before the user names it.” Jace's grin widens. “Tell me that doesn’t sell itself.”

Nate has already returned to his notes. His coffee sits untouched beside him, long past cold, and his handwriting, usually so precise it looks typeset, has started drifting across the margins.

When Nathaniel Blackwell stops caring about precision, I start worrying.

"When did you last eat?" I ask.

"Earlier."

"Two days ago," Jace supplies without looking up.

Nate cuts him a look sharp enough to make a lesser man reconsider opening his mouth. Jace just winks at him.

I frown. Two fucking days?

This man can recite our quarterly projections down to the last decimal but can't remember the last time he put food in his own damn mouth.

"This isn't sustainable," I tell him. "You'll crash before the launch."

"I'm fine—"

"You're not. You've barely left this office in a week, and apparently can't remember the last time you ate a proper meal. That's not dedication, Nathaniel."

He sets his pen down. "Don't start, Elias."

"Then stop giving me reasons to."

Jace extends his long legs from the sofa. "Ever consider that your life—all our lives—would improve dramatically if you’d just hire someone? Anyone to take some of this shit off your plate."

Nate sighs, rubbing his temples. “For the last time, I function perfectly without an assistant.”

“That’s why we’ve gone through six,” Jace replies. “Wild coincidence.”