Please note: Any sneak peeks or excerpts are unedited and the final manuscript is subject to change.

Chapter One

Penelope

 "... Driscoll Technologies CEO Penelope Driscoll hasn't responded to our requests for comment."

Why do all reporters have the same voice? You know the one where they don't throw in any emotion at all, yet it's not quite robotic. Almost like they're faking sympathy but can't be bothered to actually care. Lifting the remote, I click the mute button. I can't listen to the Stepford-looking woman share with the world that I'm failing as CEO anymore.

 I'm done.

 As if it's not enough to take over a multi-billion—yes, with a B—technology company at twenty-five, I can now cross off my business bucket list barely survive a hostile takeover attempt. Oh, and standing in front of a board every day with no clue what you're doing.

 I'm really not cut out for this.

 What did I want for my life? I imagined I'd be huddled in a lab somewhere, creating code to do amazing things in the world. Beyond that, I didn't know because math and computers have always been my comfort zone.

 A loud sigh escapes me with the force of a hurricane as I move away from the TV. I turn to step out the open door onto the balcony outside of my home office, totally lost in thought. The grass is lush and green, and the grounds well-kept despite it being the middle of the summer in California, but my gaze doesn't linger on the lawn. Instead, I'm drawn to the structure that sits in the tree straight across from where I stand.

 The treehouse my parents built me when I was little remains in the same place it's always been, and like it was then, it's still my ultimate safe haven. The itch to flee down the stairs and across the yard and climb up the ladder to escape crawls over my skin like insect legs. My teeth clench together until my jaw gets sore, knowing I can't go out there. Unfortunately, this is a problem I won’t be able to run away from. 

 I can't hide, and I can't shut it out.

 This is why I'm not a good leader—in a fight-or-flight situation, my instinct is always to flee.

 Finding out my company is about to be hostilely taken over by our competition on the evening news is definitely not the way I thought my night would go. So, here I am, every muscle tense, like I'm bracing for a punch from an MMA fighter or something, but I'm really waiting for the cavalry to arrive.

 I'd like to think what bothers me most about all of this is Fields AI's attempt to circumvent me with our shareholders and steal the company my parents built. But I'm not convinced that's what it is—not entirely. A certain curly-haired, wild-eyed playboy comes to mind. My blood heats and my pulse races at the thought of him, but don't get excited—it's not with attraction. 

 Nope.

 He digs under my skin like a parasite on a consistent basis and makes me want to punch him right in his stupidly gorgeous face, and I'm not a violent person.

 Indy Foster.

 I hope Connor sends somebody else—anybody else.

 I pull my phone out again, trying the five board members one by one with no luck. Five voicemails. That can't be a coincidence, can it? Reading people is not one of my strengths. Right now, I'm at the bottom of a pool looking up, struggling to get a clear picture through thousands of gallons of murky water of what's going on.

The only way for Fields to have made the offer to the shareholders is if the board turned down their initial proposal. I've learned more about hostile takeovers in the last twelve hours than I ever thought I'd need. People think code is boring, but business ethics and law are the real stars of that shit show. The dull aching throb in my temples is a testament to how over my head I am. 

 Numbers flash behind my eyelids as I try to make sense and put order to what's happening, but people are chaotic. It's why I've mostly shut them out of my life, perfectly content to spend my time solving puzzles and working to better a humanity I've never really fit into. What matters most to me is having something to work on, to occupy my mind with questions bigger than myself so it doesn't spiral down into dis-reality and depersonalization. It's happened before, and I never want it to again.

 The phone I forgot is in my hand vibrates, and without looking, I know it's because they're here. My security team. My bodyguards. I scoff because when did my life get so out of control? Everything is deteriorating, and I'm clawing at nothing but air, trying to stop the momentum, but it's not working. No matter how hard I cling to the things I think I have command over, the more the universe proves me wrong.

 Do I believe in a higher power? I consider it as I descend the stairs toward the front door and come to the conclusion that I don't know. I always thought there was something more out there, but then my parents' accident happened, and my life became a vortex of entropy, and everything is in question—especially that.

 My fingers tremble as I wrap them around the cool metal of the brass handle. I draw a breath deep down into my lungs, filling them until they ache before blowing the air back out. The last thing I ever want to project to people on the outside is that I lack confidence.

 Unfortunately, no one’s on the inside but me. Only I know the truth, and I want it to stay that way. On instinct—or maybe muscle memory from years of repeating the move over and over—I throw the weight of my body back as I tug on the heavy oak door, swinging it open to reveal who Connor sent me.

 My gaze quickly sweeps over the two figures standing on my doorstep—one I'm not familiar with who wears a tie and pushes his glasses up higher on his face while avoiding eye contact with me at all costs, and the other I'm a little too acquainted with. My nose wrinkles in distaste when I finish my perusal.

 Sure, Indy Foster's attractive. Absurdly, unfairly, insanely hot. His messy curls and dimpled smile have probably won him entrance into any woman's panties he wanted, and that effortless charm he throws around like confetti ensures everyone loves him. But to me? He's just an arrogant jackass who's never taken anything seriously a day in his life.

 The worst part? I'm not immune to his sharp jawline dotted with two-day-old stubble or the way his black jeans hug his muscular thighs. As much as I like to pretend he doesn't affect me, I’m a liar. A tiny bolt of excitement fires through my entire body, settling in a place that's been mostly ignored for way too long. 

 His full lips tilt up into a sinful smirk as if he knows what he does to me. Even though I lock myself down. Even though I always attempt to be a blank canvas and give nothing away. An infuriating dimple pops out and my fingers twitch at my sides with the urge to reach out and touch. Would his jaw be rough against my palm? Would it feel jagged? Would it slice my skin open and make me bleed?

"I hear you need some help, Duchess," he drawls while strutting past me into the house without waiting for an invitation.

 My few interactions with Indy always make me want to regress to a time when I was a child, stomping my foot and throwing a tantrum at his behavior. When he calls me Duchess, I want to kick him in the balls with the stiletto end of my shoe.

 The other guy on my doorstep shrugs and steps around me, not really looking in any way apologetic about their abysmal manners. Ugh, this is going to be beyond exhausting. If I hadn't spent entirely too much time on the internet reading about the history of how these takeover attempts tend to go once they're foiled, I wouldn't have even called them in.

 It seems too far-fetched, doesn't it? Having someone kidnapped, murdered, ransomed, tortured, or worse, over money? Yet, it's the society we live in, and it's what I may face if I'm not careful.

 Trust me when I say I'm always diligent. I'd rather be annoyed by Indy and whoever the other guy is than dead.

 "My name is Penelope," I tell him for the hundredth time, keeping my voice as even as I possibly can. I've already let it slip that the nickname irritates me—it's why he insists on using it. For some reason, after Bali, Indy treats me like his latest toy. 

 I know what you're thinking, and it's not like that. Not the same kind of plaything as the other women. The ones he screws and tosses aside, forgetting them as quickly as he shone his Sauron-like attention on them. For a fraction of a second, they were in his spotlight, and now they're nothing.

 No, if only I were so lucky.

 Instead, he likes to torment me, see what kind of reaction he can get. I've found it's better not to react at all. I assume eventually he'll grow bored and move on to someone who hits one back his way every now and then.

 "Whatever you say, Duchess. This is Sebastian," Indy says as if he's suddenly remembered the man at his side. In theory, Sebastian should be the guy I gravitate toward. He holds himself with perfect posture. He's fit and fills out his button-down shirt nicely, but he's not overly muscular. There's not a hair out of place on his perfectly styled head. He has this air of cool indifference about him. I imagine it either makes people want to keep their distance, or think he's a mystery waiting to be solved.

 Sadly, my long-neglected libido doesn't even spark when I study him more closely. He's sort of the male version of me, and for some reason, that's not at all appealing. Huh. I should probably examine that when I'm not so overwhelmed with… everything. Self-hate isn’t something I’m willing to entertain.

 "Nice to meet you," Sebastian mumbles, already pulling a tablet out of his bag as if social niceties are beneath him. "I'll be setting up surveillance." He pivots on his heel and marches off into my house like he knows exactly where he's going despite him never having been here before.

 I turn my focus to Indy, who's watching me, his stormy grey eyes scraping across my body in a way that makes me want to squirm. Instead, I straighten my back, lifting my chin up high, and meet his gaze. It's one of the hardest things I've ever done, maintaining eye contact like this. I tend to curl inward at direct confrontation and look away, not wanting to encourage people to interact with me. But this time? I refuse to be the first to blink and end this show of dominance or whatever is going on here. I will not be the one to submit.

 Eventually, after an uncomfortable amount of time in which I barely breathe, he chuckles and shifts his eyes over my shoulder, and I deflate. Somehow, even though I never backed down, it still feels as if I lost—like he let me win.

 "You've found yourself in quite the mess here, Duchess, not gonna lie. But don't worry, I've got you." His words almost sound like a caress as he takes a step closer, but I take one back. I'm sure this is another of the ways he intends to play with me, to make me as uncomfortable as possible.

 "What's your plan?" I ask, making sure he doesn't hear how I'm the tiniest bit breathless at his proximity, at the scent of his cologne coating my lungs like poison. A poison that makes my knees weak and my nipples pebble. I need to stay more than an arm's length away from him. If he touches me, he might see I'm more affected than I let on, and I can't have that. That's an advantage he would unquestionably exploit at every opportunity.

 His grin turns devilish, and that damn dimple on his left cheek deepens as his smile grows. I take that moment to step up onto the stairs, putting the railing between us, so I'm at eye-level with him despite our height difference. "Sebastian's setting up surveillance now, so cameras everywhere." He whispers that last word as his gaze darkens, and an involuntary shiver races down my spine, but I lock my muscles to keep it from showing.

 "And while he's doing that," he continues, tracing the tip of his finger along the banister as if he's caressing my body, "I'll be checking the perimeter and getting the lay of the land."

 "Why do you do that?" I fold my arms across my chest as armor, but not because he's staring at the way my nipples are definitely poking their way through the thin fabric. I do it because it makes me feel more secure. Indy may joke and provoke and tease, but he's not like the guys at the office who openly leer at me.

 "Do what?"

 "Attempt to make everything sound sexual? Is it a defense mechanism of some sort? Did mommy not give you enough attention when you were little?" I know it's a bitchy thing to say, and I regret it almost immediately when he recoils like I slapped him and his expression shutters. The playful glint in his eye from only moments ago is gone now, replaced by a cold, calculating creature that stares back at me from within.

 "I'll be outside, making sure no one's trying to kill you. Try to stay out of my way," he snaps, turning and stalking out of the room.

 When he leaves, I swear he takes all the heat with him despite it being summer in southern California. I pull the cardigan I wear tighter around myself and let out that urge to stomp, slamming my foot down on every step until I got to the top and then hurry into my office. Sebastian is already in here, taking over my space, and my heart jumps into my throat.

 I don't do well with change, and my house being invaded by strangers and adversaries—while necessary—is throwing me completely off. Swiping my tablet up off the desk, I cradle it in the crook of my arm and rush back down the stairs, shoving open the patio doors and rushing across the grass toward the tree line. 

 The neural network I've been building for months is at a crucial stage. That itch I get underneath my skin to work a problem until it's solved rides me hard as I stick the tablet between my teeth and climb the ladder into my treehouse.

 Is it weird I still use my childhood treehouse as my refuge? It's my safe place, the one spot that's all mine where no one else is allowed. I can shut out the world and pretend everything's the way it used to be—back when my parents were alive, when the weight of the company didn't fall on my shoulders and when nobody knew what I was working on.

Back when there were no expectations.

 Now there's nothing but pressure and endless questions. When will the network be finished? When can we start seeing data?

 And the one the shareholders and board ask most frequently?

When can we sell it?

 Therein lies the problem. I don't want to sell it. I want to create it and unleash it on the world for all the good it can do.

 I will find a cure even if it takes my whole life, but I don't think it will. I'm close, and this entire business with Fields AI is yet another obstacle I didn't expect, but don't care to let get in my way.

 In fact, I'm happy to spend my days working out here in my treehouse. There's a stocked mini-fridge, the comfiest mattress money can buy, and enough throw pillows to make Joanna Gaines jealous.

 At this point, I don't really care what Indy and that Sebastian guy do to my house or my property as long as everything is secure and doesn't detract from my work. They're professionals, and even if Indy is irritated with me, I trust he'll do his job effectively. It's why I brought them in, because I have neither the time nor the skills to handle this situation on my own anymore.

I ignore the way my stomach wants to sink through the wooden floor when I think about Indy being mad at me. I’m a people pleaser, that’s all this is.

 I sink into the mattress and lean back on the pillows, letting every muscle in my body relax as my eyes flutter closed for two seconds. All thoughts of my earlier interaction with Indy melt away as I lose myself to the comfort of the numbers and code on my tablet.

 There's a new algorithm I've been working on for the last six weeks that I believe will be a massive breakthrough when I get it right. When I was little, my father used to put me on his knee in the office and talk to me about his hopes and dreams for the artificial intelligence he hoped to create one day. How the potential for problem-solving in a machine vastly outperformed the human brain in some specific ways.

 It's what I was raised to believe. I've seen it with my own two eyes, now that technology has caught up with the vision my father showed me so many years ago.

 Since he's gone, my sole purpose is to bring his dream to fruition. No one understands why I work so hard, so I've shut them all out. I don't need that kind of negativity in my life, and nothing will derail me from my goal.

 No matter what it takes, no matter what I have to sacrifice, I will finish this program.

 My brain settles into a rhythm like a fine-tuned instrument, and my fingers fly across the screen as I work. It's not until my neck has fully cramped that I look up, blinking my dry and stinging eyes to get some relief from the strain. The sun has set, and the darkness presses in, a velvet tapestry of navies and plums. It's so dark, there are already stars twinkling above. 

 It's not as if this is the first time this has happened, losing myself to my task for hours and hours. 

 But I hear shouts in the distance—shouts of my name.

 Masculine shouts with a panicked edge.

 Standing, I stretch my fingers overhead, wiggling them to get blood back into all the digits. I tuck my tablet under one of the throw pillows—I can access my work from the cloud server I keep if a random thought strikes me tonight before bed.

 The climb down the ladder is slow and methodical. Falling and breaking something isn't on my agenda, and I don't have time for the recovery. When my feet touch the grass, I bend down and slip my shoes off, curling my toes into the cool blades and closing my eyes. Reconnecting with nature isn't something I'm able to do often. It's moments like these that remind me I'm human and not some cyborg destined to live my life hunched over in front of a screen and languishing in the harsh light of fluorescent bulbs.

 "Penelope!" Indy shouts from where he's standing near the patio. He's got a flashlight in his hand, and it's aimed in my direction. No doubt he's spotted me by now, so there's no way I’m going to be able to avoid a confrontation with him.

 The anticipation of whatever argument is coming makes the tiny hairs on my arms stand on end, and a cold sweat breaks out along my forehead and down the back of my neck.

 He stalks across the grass, and if I ignore the fact he's angry with me for hiding out, I might be swept up in the ridiculous fantasy that he actually cares beyond what his job demands him to, which is silly. Indy has proven with every single interaction we’ve had that not only does he not view relationships with the opposite sex the same way I do, but that he would be a distraction.

 A colossal, dangerous, carnal distraction.

 A distraction I can't afford to indulge.

 I brace myself for the onslaught, curling my fingers into fists and resting them on my hips. My back straightens, and my heart speeds up as if it's sprinting toward an invisible finish line, determined to win at all costs.

 "Where the fuck have you been?" he rages when he gets close enough, and I flinch as if his words are a physical blow. I'm not good with negative social interaction—or any social interaction, really—on a good day, and he's really upset.

 "I-"

 "We've been freaking the fuck out, tearing this place apart trying to find you. I thought someone kidnapped you!" he shouts, and I take a step back. I can only imagine what I must look like right now, eyes wide as saucers and lower lip trembling. For all of my bravado, I'm really just a chicken down deep—one with a lot of pride who doesn't like to show how weak I really am.

 "I-" I try again, but he doesn't let me get a word in.

 "And what would we have had to do then, huh? What kinds of dangerous situations would you have put all of us in because you can't seem to follow some simple fucking safety protocols!" Indy's breathing hard and his eyes are narrowed and unhinged. He looks as if he's about to reach for me—to check me over for injury or shake some sense into me, I'm not sure which—but hesitates at the last second. Instead, he moves to one of the trees at my back and punches it so hard leaves flutter down around me.

 He punches it again and again, and I can only imagine what the bark is doing to his knuckles. Finally, with heaving breaths, he stops and rests his forehead against the trunk, but I don't wait to see what else he might say. 

 My eyes sting, and I'm seconds away from crying, something I've never let anyone see me do—not even at my parents' funeral. I sure as hell am not going to allow Indy to see me at my most vulnerable, not after this.

 Instead of waiting for whatever he might say, I take off across the lawn. He must sense what I'm doing because he calls out, "Protocol, Duchess." 

I don’t know what protocol he's referring to, so I don't bother responding. He probably won't let me speak anyway, so I continue on, escaping inside the safety of the house, charging through the French doors, and sprinting for my room.

When I slam my bedroom door, I turn my back to it, sliding down the solid surface until I'm sitting on the floor with my knees pulled into my chest. I sit like that for so long my butt goes numb before my phone pings, and I pull it out of my pocket, shocked to realize I haven't checked it in hours.

And when I do? I understand why Indy's so upset with me.

That protocol he mentioned? It's right there in my inbox, and the number one rule is never going anywhere without clearing it with him first.

Feeling like the world's biggest asshole, I climb into bed, still fully clothed but lacking the energy to do anything about it. Tomorrow can’t get any worse, right?