Page 57 of Betting on the Brainiac

The office is full, and the low hum leaking through the glass reminds me both of what we’ve built already and why it’s so hard for me to work in here. It also reminds me of why it’s so important that I nail our deadline with the delivery of flawlesssoftware. Every one of those voices in the hum out there needs me to get this right.

I turn to watch them, some of them in the glassy-eyed trance that means they’re deep into debugging, some of them laughing with each other, a few in headphones, tapping away on their keyboards. “We need to tell them.”

“Not yet.” Matt shakes his head when I shoot him a concerned look. “Give me three days to see what I can come up with. If I don’t have a sure thing by then, we’ll tell them. They’ll still get a full two weeks of pay and as much time as they need during office hours to send out their resumes or go to interviews.”

Three days. Three days to find investors when the first time took almost four months.

We’re as good as done, but Matt has earned the right to ask for my trust.

“Okay,” I tell him. “But I’ll stay here to work. I can’t make you do this alone.”

“Again, they’ll know something is up. They probably already suspect it with you being in here this morning. Give them peace of mind for as long as we can. C is for cave. Hide in the cave.”

I give him my first real smile of the morning. “Matt, you just made a coding joke.”

“I could make more if you used Python. Now get out of here, so I can solve all of our problems.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Madison

I stare at theman in front of me, furious that he would invade my space for any reason, much less to start an argument within a minute of arriving.

“You are overreacting to a simple dinner invitation,” he says.

Gordon Armstrong hears the word “no” so infrequently that to him, it feels like I’m being dramatic.

Maybe I am. My dad has that effect on me. But I keep my voice even as I ask, “Why do you think you can come in here and dictate anything to me?”

“That’s my job as a father.”

“My obligation to obey you ended when I was eighteen.”

“Those are the words of an ungrateful and immature person.” His voice is deep, moving from impatient to tense.

I make mine icy. “What do I have in my life right now that I owe you for, Dad? Name one thing.”

“Your education.”

“Which I have thanked you for again and again even though your country club dues cost more than my housing and tuition. It’s the only string you have left to pull, but guess what?” I say the next words slowly, giving the final sound a sharp plosive. “Snip, snip.”

“That’s big talk for a woman who bought herself a luxury car instead of paying back that tuition as a matter of principle,” he says.

I snort. “You mean the used Mercedes out there that the club owner’s wife gave me? It was a gift when they moved back to Germany because I used my connections to build them the most elite bottle staff in Austin.”

He scoffs, and my fingers clench. “Your connections? You mean strippers and party girls? You could be mingling with the decision makers who run this city.”

I force myself to calm down before I answer. I don’t want him to hear even the hint of hurt in my voice that he can never acknowledge any of my accomplishments. “I will pay you back when I’m thirty, Dad. But right now, I split the rent four ways with women who also work for a living, and what doesn’t go to my living expenses doesn’t need your approval for how I spend it. If the tuition matters that much to you, take it out of my trust. About a month of interest should cover all four years, right?”

He takes a step back before holding his ground, and I’m glad for the slight extra space. My dad is tall with a button-down shirt perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders, but it’s his presence that fills any room he’s in. “Madison, that is not—”

“You won’t do it, of course,” I say, ignoring his interruption. “You want to keep dangling it over me. The debt of my education. How about this, Dad? You know where all my disposable income goes instead of paying you back? A victim’sfund. For Dhaka. And as soon as I get my inheritance, that’s where it’s all going too.”

A dull flush appears on his cheeks. “Do not sit there and preach to me about your ideals when your own pride keeps you from doing any real good. You could have that money now if you wanted it.”

“If I marry someone you approve of,” I snap back.

“You don’t even have to marry to start wielding real influence,” he says. “You could take your place on the board of our philanthropy. You could have a controlling vote in a dozen different charities if you’re so altruistic. Your sister has more real-world influence than you do, and the ink on her degree isn’t even dry yet.”

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