Although, to be fair, no one’s actually had an aneurism—yet.
And while the tech blogs rave about Triada’s ultramodern design, I prefer a more subdued workspace. One better suited to my work style—no distractions—with cool grays and muted creams.
I’m a traditionalist like that.
Seated behind my sleek gray desk, I return my laptop to the docking station and scan my desktop. Once I’ve confirmed everything is in its proper place, my mind reverts immediately to the Epos launch.
And the face-off with Scarlett.
What the hell was that, anyway?
Never in my life have I had an employee turn tail and run before.
There’s a first time for everything, Hart.
True enough.
I lean back and close my eyes, considering. Why had she refused to give me her notes? More importantly, why was I so dead set on getting them?
I’m not such an entitled prick I can’t accept the word no. It’s just… What was she so worried about?
They’re just meeting notes for chrissake.
In the grand scheme of things, they don’t matter. What matters is tomorrow’s press conference, a fact I’d do well to remember. With the Epos launch in just four weeks, this isn’t the time to lose focus.
Not when we’re on the cusp of accomplishing everything we’ve worked so hard to achieve.
One wrong move could bring it all crashing down.
It wouldn’t take much. One careless tweet. One thoughtless comment.
Hell, I know that fact better than anyone, having lived it firsthand.
The media is a fickle mistress. Triada is a tech darling today, but there’s no guarantee we won’t be pariahs tomorrow.
It’s the blessing and the curse of the digital age.
It’s also why Miles, Beck, and I swore eight years ago that we’d do whatever it took to secure our futures. I’m not about to fail them because I got sidetracked by one of Miles’s charity cases.
Even if she has an intriguing spark about her.
That spark is none of your concern.
I open a file with talking points for tomorrow’s presser and review them side by side with prep notes from the Director of Public Relations. It’s the usual bullshit. Don’t argue. Don’t take questions from ATX Exposed. Respond “no comment” if asked about my personal life.
Or lack thereof.
Irritation creeps up my spine. These little reminders are hardly necessary. After last year’s media shitstorm, I’m well versed in dealing with the press.
Once burned, as they say.
I make it a whole fifteen minutes before Scarlett Evans and her meeting notes slip back into my thoughts.
What is she hiding?
Fuck it. Once the mystery is solved, I’ll be able to focus.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been like this, unable to walk away from a problem without first finding a solution. Maybe it stems from childhood, from long hours spent solving puzzles and riddles with my father. My memories from before the accident are few and precious, but I remember that much. I remember him calling me a natural born problem solver.
