Page 108 of Only the Wicked
In theory, powerful. In reality, a target by all.
I find myself back at the suite and pause at the door. Inside is a woman who deceived me, yes. But also a woman trying to honor the dead. Prevent others from dying.
I push open the door.
Keeping the company private won’t offer the protection I imagined. Not in a world where governments target me.
Hubris.
That one word calls to my subconscious.
Sydney greets me in the foyer, tentative.
“What’s going on?” Her voice is soft, her posture tentative. “Where’d you go?”
Those soft brown eyes study me—the same eyes that looked at me with what I foolishly interpreted as desire back in North Carolina. But no, those are dark, calculating eyes. Analyzing my responses, measuring my weaknesses, assessing how to get to know me.
My conscience corrects me. Her expression now seems genuinely concerned, not manufactured.
The actress and the woman—where does one end and the other begin? And why does it still matter to me?
Maybe the actress and the woman aren’t separate entities. Maybe they’re both Sydney—one who accepted a mission to find justice, and one who found something she wasn’t looking for along the way. Just like I did.
“I don’t need to know what they have over you,” she says, apparently taking a stab in the dark at my thoughts. “I trust you. You’re not a bad person. If the leak came from ARGUS, I believe you aren’t the guilty party.”
She’s correct. I’m not a bad person, but will hubris be my downfall?
“You’re scaring me. What is it? Why aren’t you speaking?”
“Do you study mythology?” She’s taken aback by my question.
She blinks and tilts her head, but she reaches for me and her touch warms my skin.
Miles mocked me for my mythology fetish—that’s what he called it. The stories remain with us for a reason, contemporary fiction’s original tropes. The themes and tales woven through all the modern religions and popular fiction because they tell the tale of our wicked ways.
“I knew nothing about mythology,” she says, “until I was assigned to you. I picked up that you have a thing for mythology and read a basic primer.”
She studied me.
And she won’t be the only one. Life as a target.
I move to the minibar, the crystal tumbler heavy in my hand as I pour three fingers of scotch. The liquid burns a familiar path down my throat—Macallan 25, the same brand my first investor drank when we closed our initial funding round. I’ve come so far from that one-room office with salvaged furniture and borrowed servers. The suite’s plush carpet, the panoramic views of Washington’s monuments, the $8,000 suit hanging in the closet—all of it evidence of my success. And now, potential evidence of my downfall.
“What about mythology?” Her gentle probe conveys concern.
Perhaps concern is warranted. I feel lightheaded and ungrounded.
She intensifies her pressure on my arm, seeking an answer.
“Mythology is littered with tales of those whose hubris brings about their end.” I turn to face the monument visible through the hotel window—Washington’s own temple to power. “The ancients understood something we’ve forgotten. Creation without wisdom leads to destruction.”
“Pride?” Her voice carries a note of confusion, but her eyes remain focused, analytical, as she works the problem.
“Pride is too simple a word. The Greeks called it hubris—the arrogance that makes men believe they can challenge the gods. The presumption that we can create without consequence.” I press my palm against the cool glass. “Every Silicon Valley founder believes they’re Prometheus bringing fire to humanity. None of us consider that Prometheus was chained to a rock with an eagle eating his liver for eternity as punishment.”
She’s expecting me to tell her what crime I’ve committed. And I’m sure with the right congressional inquisition, I could be locked away for years. It’s easier to break laws than the average person might assume.
But I’m not looking at my past. I’m looking to my future.
