Page 184 of The Right Wrong Promise

“And you don’t think you made the right call?” I ask.

He turns off the water.

The sudden morning cold against my too-hot skin almost feels overwhelming. Together, we step out of the shower and wrap ourselves in fluffy towels.

Instead of drying, though, we both walk to the bed and sit on the edge of it.

“It’s complicated,” he tells me, folding his hands in his lap. “You deserve to know, but it’s not a story that reflects well on me.”

I take his hand and hold it in mine.

“It’s okay. Just start at the beginning. What did you do there?”

“It’s what I didn’t do. The worst part is, I joined it on a whim. With my hockey career buried and no love for politics, I figured I’d take my money and try a few start-ups. I always had an interest in technology. When a friend mentioned OptiSynth, I—”

“But whatisit? Some AI thing?” I interrupt.

I’ve looked it up, of course, but I want to hear it in his words.

“Oh. Right.” He sighs. “They originally promised to revolutionize interior design. They’d be a tool for designers toupload original concepts and then build tons of variations with AI. Not just images or crappy five-second videos, but full-blown 3D modeling.”

So far, so good.

That’s what I gathered, too, and I have to admit it’s a nifty concept.

Everyone and their dog talks about AI these days if they aren’t actually using it. It makes sense to jump on what’s popular, a guaranteed road to riches.

Only, from Kane’s face, that’s not what happened.

“But you didn’t like it?” I guess.

“For a couple years, it was good. Really good while it was in the development phase.” He lifts his gaze to mine. “I still had a lot of celebrity cred back then, and I used it to bring in more investors. We were getting off the ground fast, beating our competition off superior capital.”

“Nice,” I say, releasing his hand as he pulls it free.

With his towel still wrapped around his waist, he stands and paces the room.

There’s something oddly compelling about the way he moves now, tattoo bristling on his arm, his muscles tight and defined.

“My intention was never to replace designers or put them out of work,” he says shortly. “You have to know that.”

“I believe you.”

“People have been talking shit about me because I was the one to bring so many people onboard. My presence got the big money interested, the kind that could push us forward. Not just money, the art world came too. Hell, I did the outreach, connecting with them in a way the business and tech types couldn’t. We made this incredible software because I made it possible. And that’s where I fucked up.”

“Kane,” I whisper, getting up and crossing the room until I’m in front of him, still in my towel, hair wet down my back. I don’tlook as majestic as him, but he stares at me like I’m the sunrise. “It’s okay. I promise.”

“I should’ve seen it coming from ten miles away,” he whispers, his fingers tracing my jaw. “You can tell me it’s not my fault, but it is. Because I should’ve known this was exactly the kind of tech people use for pure fuckery.”

I lean into his touch. “What do you mean?”

“It was just a few cutthroats who wanted to save on costs at first. They showed up just as the project really took off, and the new executive team decided to plot a new direction. They scrapped the plan to roll out tools—they decided it was good enough to pitch it as a ‘designer replacement’ to major firms.”

“Oh, yikes.” I flinch.

“I was fucking livid. Felt double-crossed as they shrugged and rewrote our vision and white papers. But there was nothing I could do. Then word leaked out, and all the artists I’d worked with were furious, blaming me for the knife in the back. Even though I was just as much in the dark about it as them.”

“Holy shit. Kane—”