Chapter 2
The thing about Alexander Whitmore was that he had two completely different personalities, and I was possibly the only person on earth who knew both.
At work, he was terrifying. Not in a loud, aggressive way—in a quiet, surgical way. He could dismantle a flawed proposal in three sentences. He never raised his voice. He didn't need to. When he was displeased, the temperature in the room simply dropped, and everyone scrambled to fix whatever they'd done wrong.
He'd made a senior consultant cry last Tuesday. Not by yelling. By saying, calmly, "I expected more from someone at your level," and then returning to his laptop.
Online, with me, he was a completely different person.
He sent me songs at midnight. He told me about his childhood—how his father had built Whitmore & Associates from nothing and expected Alexander to be perfect at everything, always. How he'd never learned to be soft with people because no one had ever been soft with him.
He once sent me a voice message at 3 AM that just said: [I had a nightmare. Can you talk to me?]
And I did. I stayed up until dawn, typing back and forth, telling him stupid jokes until he said: [I'm smiling. I don't do that often. Thank you.]
That was the moment I realized I was in trouble.
Because knowing what I knew—who he was—I should have ended it right then. A clean break. "Sorry, this isn't working." Block, delete, move on.
But every time I tried to compose that message, I'd hear his voice in my head: *I think I'm fundamentally unlovable.*
And I couldn't do it.
So I stayed. I told myself it was harmless. Just texts. Just photos. Just two people pretending the real world didn't exist.
Except the real world was getting harder to ignore.
Especially today.
"Nora."
I jumped. My manager, Chloe Barnett, was standing behind me with a stack of folders and an expression that suggested she was about to ruin my day.
Chloe was beautiful, ambitious, and absolutely obsessed with Alexander. She wore pencil skirts and red lipstick to every meeting he attended. She laughed at things he said that were not remotely funny. She once "accidentally" brushed his hand while passing him a coffee and talked about it for three days.
She also hated me, though I'd never figured out exactly why. I suspected it was because Alexander had once complimented a report I'd written in a company-wide email, and Chloe had taken it as a personal attack.
"Take these to Mr. Whitmore's office," she said, dropping the folders on my desk.
"These are the revised market analyses? Shouldn't you present them? You led the team on—"
"I'm busy." She was already walking away. "And make sure you explain the methodology. He had questions last time."
She disappeared around the corner before I could protest.
I stared at the folders. Then at the glass office where Alexander sat, his jaw tight, his pen tapping against his desk in a rhythm that meant he was irritated.
Great. Perfect. Wonderful.
I picked up my phone one more time. Eleven had sent a new message.
[I'm sorry if I came on too strong. I just... I've never felt this way about anyone. You're the only person who makes me feel like I don't have to perform. Like I can just exist and that's enough.]
My chest tightened.
I typed quickly: [You didn't come on too strong. I just need time. Please trust me.]
[I trust you. I just wish I knew your name.]
You do, I thought. You've seen it on a dozen reports.
I put my phone in my drawer, grabbed the folders, and walked toward his office.
The hallway felt longer than usual. Through the glass, I could see him clearly now—dark hair pushed back, sleeves rolled to his forearms, reading something on his screen with an expression of barely contained annoyance.
I knocked.
"Come in."
His voice—God, his voice. Now that I knew, I couldn't unhear it. Every word he said in the office sounded like a ghost of the things he'd whispered to me in voice messages.
"Mr. Whitmore, Chloe asked me to bring the revised market analyses."
He didn't look up. "Set them down."
I placed them on his desk. I should have left. Any normal employee would have turned around and walked out.
But I hesitated.
Up close, I noticed the dark circles under his eyes. He looked exhausted. The kind of exhausted that sleep doesn't fix.
He'd told me last night he hadn't been sleeping well. That he kept thinking about us. About what it would be like to hold someone—hold me—for real.
"Is there something else?" His eyes flicked up, catching me staring.
"No. Sorry. I—Chloe mentioned you had questions about the methodology."
He leaned back in his chair, studying me with an expression I couldn't read. "You worked on this?"
"I handled the data modeling for sections three and five."
He opened the folder, flipping to section three. His brow furrowed as he read, and I braced myself for criticism.
Instead, he said, "This is good."
I blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"The regression model. It's clean. Better than what your team usually delivers." He looked up at me again, and for a split second, something shifted in his expression—curiosity, maybe. "What's your name again?"
My heart dropped. "Nora. Nora Chen."
"Nora," he repeated, as if tasting it. Then he nodded. "Good work. Tell Chloe to schedule a follow-up meeting. I want you in the room."
"Yes, sir."
I turned and walked out, my pulse hammering in my ears.
He didn't know. He had no idea.
Back at my desk, my phone screen glowed with a new message from Eleven.
[I had a thought. What if we start small? Just coffee. A public place. You can leave anytime you want. No pressure.]
I typed: [I said no.]
[I know. But I had to ask again. Because I think about you constantly, and it's starting to drive me crazy.]
I looked through the glass at Alexander, who had gone back to reading the report. My report.
He turned a page, and the corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile.
I closed my eyes and leaned back in my chair.
I was so, so screwed.
---
At work, he was terrifying. Not in a loud, aggressive way—in a quiet, surgical way. He could dismantle a flawed proposal in three sentences. He never raised his voice. He didn't need to. When he was displeased, the temperature in the room simply dropped, and everyone scrambled to fix whatever they'd done wrong.
He'd made a senior consultant cry last Tuesday. Not by yelling. By saying, calmly, "I expected more from someone at your level," and then returning to his laptop.
Online, with me, he was a completely different person.
He sent me songs at midnight. He told me about his childhood—how his father had built Whitmore & Associates from nothing and expected Alexander to be perfect at everything, always. How he'd never learned to be soft with people because no one had ever been soft with him.
He once sent me a voice message at 3 AM that just said: [I had a nightmare. Can you talk to me?]
And I did. I stayed up until dawn, typing back and forth, telling him stupid jokes until he said: [I'm smiling. I don't do that often. Thank you.]
That was the moment I realized I was in trouble.
Because knowing what I knew—who he was—I should have ended it right then. A clean break. "Sorry, this isn't working." Block, delete, move on.
But every time I tried to compose that message, I'd hear his voice in my head: *I think I'm fundamentally unlovable.*
And I couldn't do it.
So I stayed. I told myself it was harmless. Just texts. Just photos. Just two people pretending the real world didn't exist.
Except the real world was getting harder to ignore.
Especially today.
"Nora."
I jumped. My manager, Chloe Barnett, was standing behind me with a stack of folders and an expression that suggested she was about to ruin my day.
Chloe was beautiful, ambitious, and absolutely obsessed with Alexander. She wore pencil skirts and red lipstick to every meeting he attended. She laughed at things he said that were not remotely funny. She once "accidentally" brushed his hand while passing him a coffee and talked about it for three days.
She also hated me, though I'd never figured out exactly why. I suspected it was because Alexander had once complimented a report I'd written in a company-wide email, and Chloe had taken it as a personal attack.
"Take these to Mr. Whitmore's office," she said, dropping the folders on my desk.
"These are the revised market analyses? Shouldn't you present them? You led the team on—"
"I'm busy." She was already walking away. "And make sure you explain the methodology. He had questions last time."
She disappeared around the corner before I could protest.
I stared at the folders. Then at the glass office where Alexander sat, his jaw tight, his pen tapping against his desk in a rhythm that meant he was irritated.
Great. Perfect. Wonderful.
I picked up my phone one more time. Eleven had sent a new message.
[I'm sorry if I came on too strong. I just... I've never felt this way about anyone. You're the only person who makes me feel like I don't have to perform. Like I can just exist and that's enough.]
My chest tightened.
I typed quickly: [You didn't come on too strong. I just need time. Please trust me.]
[I trust you. I just wish I knew your name.]
You do, I thought. You've seen it on a dozen reports.
I put my phone in my drawer, grabbed the folders, and walked toward his office.
The hallway felt longer than usual. Through the glass, I could see him clearly now—dark hair pushed back, sleeves rolled to his forearms, reading something on his screen with an expression of barely contained annoyance.
I knocked.
"Come in."
His voice—God, his voice. Now that I knew, I couldn't unhear it. Every word he said in the office sounded like a ghost of the things he'd whispered to me in voice messages.
"Mr. Whitmore, Chloe asked me to bring the revised market analyses."
He didn't look up. "Set them down."
I placed them on his desk. I should have left. Any normal employee would have turned around and walked out.
But I hesitated.
Up close, I noticed the dark circles under his eyes. He looked exhausted. The kind of exhausted that sleep doesn't fix.
He'd told me last night he hadn't been sleeping well. That he kept thinking about us. About what it would be like to hold someone—hold me—for real.
"Is there something else?" His eyes flicked up, catching me staring.
"No. Sorry. I—Chloe mentioned you had questions about the methodology."
He leaned back in his chair, studying me with an expression I couldn't read. "You worked on this?"
"I handled the data modeling for sections three and five."
He opened the folder, flipping to section three. His brow furrowed as he read, and I braced myself for criticism.
Instead, he said, "This is good."
I blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"The regression model. It's clean. Better than what your team usually delivers." He looked up at me again, and for a split second, something shifted in his expression—curiosity, maybe. "What's your name again?"
My heart dropped. "Nora. Nora Chen."
"Nora," he repeated, as if tasting it. Then he nodded. "Good work. Tell Chloe to schedule a follow-up meeting. I want you in the room."
"Yes, sir."
I turned and walked out, my pulse hammering in my ears.
He didn't know. He had no idea.
Back at my desk, my phone screen glowed with a new message from Eleven.
[I had a thought. What if we start small? Just coffee. A public place. You can leave anytime you want. No pressure.]
I typed: [I said no.]
[I know. But I had to ask again. Because I think about you constantly, and it's starting to drive me crazy.]
I looked through the glass at Alexander, who had gone back to reading the report. My report.
He turned a page, and the corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile.
I closed my eyes and leaned back in my chair.
I was so, so screwed.
---