The Algorithm of Us: Catching the CEO’s Glitch.

The Maternal Malfunction

Ivy's POV

There are several things a serious, self-respecting investigative journalist should be prepared for in the line of duty. A midnight raid, a hostile corporate buyout, or even a lawsuit from a disgruntled tech mogul.

An unannounced visit from a billionaire's mother while wearing said billionaire's custom Egyptian cotton dress shirt as a makeshift dress is not on the syllabus.

"Julian," I squeaked, my voice hitting a pitch that only dogs and highly sensitive Vance Corp audio equipment could detect. "Tell me your mother is the sweet, baking-cookies type. Tell me she lives in a cottage and doesn't understand high finance."

Julian didn't look up from his tablet, though his thumb was refreshing the security feed at a speed that betrayed his calm expression. "My mother holds a master's degree in chemical engineering, sits on three international banking boards, and once fired a private chef because his soufflé lacked 'structural integrity.' She does not bake, Ome. She deconstructs."

"Great. Fantastic. I'm dead," I muttered, frantically looking around the minimalist dining room for my discarded clothes. My crumpled skirt was still sitting by the armchair in the bedroom, and my heels were scattered somewhere near the front entryway.

"Arthur," Julian commanded into his smartwatch. "Delay her at the lobby level. Claim the private express elevator is undergoing a mandatory diagnostic reboot."

"I tried, sir," Arthur's voice bled through the speaker, sounding entirely out of breath. "But Mrs. Vance informed the building manager that if the elevator wasn't functional in thirty seconds, she would buy the entire residential tower and personally fire the engineering team. She is currently ascending. You have approximately forty-five seconds."

I panicked. In a display of sheer, unadulterated survival instinct, I grabbed the remaining piece of my waffle, shoved it into my mouth, and turned to bolt back toward the master bedroom.

Before my bare feet could even cross the threshold of the dining room, the heavy, soundproofed doors of the penthouse slid open with a smooth, terrifying hiss.

"Julian, darling," a voice chimed. It was crisp, melodious, and carried the unmistakable weight of old money and absolute authority. "The security in this building is slipping. I didn't see a single guard on the perimeter who looked capable of stopping an amateur corporate spy, let alone a determined mother."

I froze mid-stride, a literal piece of waffle still poking out of my mouth.

Victoria Vance stepped into the penthouse. She was the textbook definition of intimidating. Dressed in a flawless, tailored cream pantsuit that didn't have a single wrinkle despite a transatlantic flight, her dark hair was swept back into a sleek, aristocratic chignon. Massive diamond studs caught the morning light, and her sharp eyes swept the room with the efficiency of a high-end laser scanner and then, that laser scanner locked directly onto me.

I slowly chewed and swallowed the waffle, trying to channel whatever dignity I had left while standing there with bare legs, messy hair, and an oversized men's collar framing my collarbones.

"Oh," Victoria murmured, her perfectly manicured brows arching upward. She didn't look angry; she looked like a scientist observing a highly fascinating, unexpected mutation in a petri dish. "Julian, you didn't mention your system update included domestic anomalies."

Julian stepped forward, entirely unbothered, and smoothly intercepted his mother, kissing her on both cheeks. "Mother. Your arrival is mathematically ahead of schedule by three hours."

"Weather patterns changed over the Atlantic, and my pilot knows I despise inefficiency," Victoria said, dismissing the explanation with a wave of her hand. Her eyes never left me. She walked past Julian, her designer heels clicking with brutal precision on the marble, until she was standing exactly three feet away from me.

The silence stretched for five agonizing seconds. I felt like a bug under a microscope.

"You're smaller than you look on the live broadcast," Victoria finally remarked, tilting her head. "And significantly less... cynical."

I cleared my throat, forcing my shoulders back. If I was going to go down, I was going to go down like a journalist. "The camera adds ten pounds of misanthropy, Mrs. Vance. I'm Ivy. Or, technically... Ome."

Julian walked up behind his mother, his expression neutral but his eyes tracking my body language. "Mother, this is Ome. The writer responsible for our recent public relations... volatility."

"I know exactly who she is," Victoria said, a sudden, terrifyingly sharp smile breaking across her face. She reached out, and for a terrifying second, I thought she was going to slap me. Instead, she caught the collar of Julian's shirt-the one I was currently wearing-and inspected the fabric. "And I see she has already begun liquidating your assets, Julian. Excellent. This boy has been wearing identical white shirts since he was twelve. It's entirely depressing."

I blinked. "Wait. You're not... furious?"

Victoria let out a light, musical laugh that echoed through the vast penthouse. "Furious? Darling, my son spent the last five years trying to automate human affection because he was too terrified of variables he couldn't control. Yesterday, you stood on a stage, called his entire life's work a beautiful lie, and caused a multi-million-dollar tech empire to stall. Do you know how refreshing that is?"

She turned back to Julian, her smile vanishing into a look of maternal triumph. "I told you, Julian. The human heart cannot be coded. This young woman just proved my entire thesis correct in front of forty thousand streaming viewers."

Julian's POV

My internal processors were struggling to categorize the data currently unfolding in front of me.

According to my historical modeling, my mother's reaction to a major corporate disruption should have involved a three-hour lecture on shareholder confidence and a demand for an immediate public retraction. Instead, she was currently sitting at my dining table, drinking my black coffee, and looking at Ome as if she had just discovered a new element on the periodic table.

Ome had managed to retreat to the guest bathroom for exactly three minutes, returning in her slightly wrinkled skirt but still wearing my oversized shirt-which she had aggressively tucked in to maintain what she called "professional boundaries."

"So," Victoria said, leaning forward and resting her chin on her hands. "The 'Heartbreak Queen' persona. Was it a calculated marketing strategy to drive traffic to your media outlet, or a genuine psychological defense mechanism resulting from a poorly managed emotional trauma in your early twenties?"

Ome nearly choked on her fresh glass of water. She glared at me, silently accusing me of sharing her psychological profile.

"I didn't tell her anything," I stated simply, taking my seat. "My mother has a habit of executing unauthorized background checks before breakfast."

"Naturally," Victoria agreed smoothly. "I had my team pull your university transcripts and your early editorial drafts, Ome. Your syntax is remarkably sharp, though your rejection of the romantic trope suggests a deep-seated fear of vulnerability. It's fascinating."

"Mrs. Vance," Ome said, her voice dropping into that low, dangerous tone she used when she was preparing to eviscerate a corrupt tech launch. "With all due respect, I am a journalist, not a corporate case study. And while your son may think he owns my platform as of eighty-five forty-five this morning, he does not own me."

I paused, my coffee cup halfway to my mouth. Eighty-five forty-five. She was using my exact military time-stamping against me.

Victoria's eyes lit up with absolute delight. She slapped her hand on the table. "Marvelous! Julian, she doesn't use your metrics, she weaponizes them! Where did you find her?"

"She found me, Mother. In the middle of an investigative exposé," I replied, watching the flush of anger hit Ome's cheeks. The visual data was undeniable; she was highly reactive to being patronized, yet she hadn't fled the room.

"Well, whatever the algorithm said, it was clearly accurate," Victoria declared, standing up and smoothing her cream trousers. "Now, Julian, pack a bag. And Ome, you will need something significantly more structured than my son's sleepwear. We are leaving for the annual Vance Global Summit in Switzerland in three hours."

Ome stared at her. "Switzerland? I have a 9:00 AM pitch meeting with my editor!"

"Your editor now reports to my son's micro-acquisition division," Victoria dismissed casually, walking toward the private elevator. "I've already had Arthur cancel your morning schedule. The press in Europe is having a meltdown over the 'Glitch in the Vance Algorithm.' We are going to control the narrative. Together."

The elevator doors opened, and Victoria stepped inside, turning around to face us with a parting smirk. "Don't be late, children. The private jet hates to idle on the tarmac."

The doors slid shut, leaving the penthouse in a ringing, stunned silence.

I turned my head to look at Ome. She was staring at the closed elevator doors, her jaw slightly slack, her hands gripping the edge of the marble table so tightly her knuckles were white.

Slowly, she turned her gaze to me.

"Julian," she whispered, her voice dangerous.

"Yes, Ome?"

"Your family is an absolute, unmitigated software disaster."

I couldn't help it. A low, genuine laugh escaped my chest-a sound my system hadn't produced in years. "The data supports your conclusion entirely. I suggest we begin packing."