Not That Into You

Chapter Two - Travis

By nine a.m., I've already put out three fires.

One: a junior developer tried pushing live code without approval.
Two: a brand partner I didn't even want in the first place is threatening to pull out.
Three: legal flagged a contract someone on the acquisitions team signed without reading past page six.

This is what happens when you build something too fast.

People get sloppy. They forget the basics. They assume someone else will catch their mistakes.

Which is why I never stop moving.

My phone buzzes again.

Vivian Prescott. I don't even have to read the message to know what she wants. She's been hounding me for a profile for six months, and I've told my PR team no every single time.

No interviews. No cover stories. No giving strangers access to my life.

I don't care how well-respected Reveal Magazine is or how many awards they've won. I'm not interested in being turned into a headline.

I delete the message without responding.

"Travis," one of the HR girls says, popping her head into the office. "The temp you approved starts Monday."

"What's her name?" I ask, barely looking up from my screen.

"Taylor Swift. She's just part-time. HR brought her in to help out while we're short-handed."

I nod. "Fine."

I don't care who they bring in, as long as she stays out of my way and doesn't fuck up my calendar.

My phone rings again. This time, it's a name I do want to see.

Jason.

I answer on the first ring. "What's up?"

"You sound like you've been up since yesterday."

"I basically have."

"Figures. Anyway, I was calling because Wyatt wants to know if Uncle Travis is coming to her school thing next week."

I lean back in my chair. "What school thing?"

"Exactly," he says, like that proves some kind of point. "You never check the group chat."

"Because the group chat is ninety percent photos of Ellie in a tutu."

"She likes ballet."

"She's four," I say.

"And already more coordinated than you were at eighteen."

I rub the back of my neck, smiling despite myself. "Tell Wyatt I'll be there."

"She's gonna be psyched. Kylie said she's been drawing you again. You're still shaped like a square."

"Sounds accurate."

"Also," he adds, "Kylie said to remind you that you're coming to dinner Sunday. No excuses."

I glance at my schedule. "I have—"

"I will tell her you said no, but I'm not saving you from the look she gives when her pot roast goes uneaten."

I sigh. "Fine. I'll be there."

"Bring wine."

"Obviously."

Jason's quiet for a second before he says, "You good?"

"I'm fine."

"You sure? You sound... I don't know. Pissed."

"I'm always pissed."

He laughs. "Yeah, but this is a different flavor. You sound tight."

I grunt. "Maybe I need to get laid."

Jason snorts. "Definitely. Preferably by someone who doesn't work for you this time."

"Funny."

"Don't be a dick. I'm looking out for you."

"I know."

I sit in silence, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows of my corner office.

I built this company from nothing. Turned one podcast network into a media empire. Now I've got more money than I know what to do with, a team that runs twenty-four-seven, and not a single minute of my day that's quiet.

And somehow, it still doesn't feel like enough.

I end the call with Jason and stare at the spot on my desk where my laptop sits, closed.

For once, I don't reach for it.

I should. There's a proposal in my inbox. Three calendar invites to approve. At least four emails marked urgent, even though they never are.

But I don't move.

Instead, I stand. Cross the office. Pour myself a drink—just one finger of bourbon, barely enough to matter.

It's too early, but no one's going to say shit. Not in this building. Not to me.

I take a slow sip and lean against the edge of the floor-to-ceiling glass. The city hums beneath me. People moving like ants down below, all of them racing to build something, chase something, survive something.

I've already won the game they're still playing. But it doesn't feel like winning.

Lately, it just feels like repetition.

Meetings. Mergers. Contracts. Obligations.

Sex when I want it. Distraction when I need it. But never the same woman twice. Never anything... complicated.

And still, I keep catching myself looking for something.

What, I don't know. But I know it's not in my inbox.

I finish the bourbon and set the glass down just as my phone buzzes again.

New email. Subject line: T. Swift—New Hire Documents.

I tap it open. Scroll. Skim.

Nothing special. Nothing unusual. She'll start Monday. Light onboarding. Limited access. Temporary placement.

I barely glance at her name again.

Taylor Swift.

Sounds familiar in the way all names do when you've heard too many of them.

Doesn't matter. She's just an assistant. One more person coming through the revolving door.

And if I catch myself wondering why my pulse just kicked up—even slightly—I blame the bourbon.