Chapter 3
Things got worse on Monday.
Alexander called an all-hands meeting to announce a company restructuring. Nothing dramatic—some team reassignments, new project groups, updated reporting lines.
But then he said something that made my stomach drop.
"Given the scope of the Meridian project, I'll be working directly with a smaller task force. I've selected the members based on recent performance."
He read off four names.
Mine was third.
Chloe's was not on the list.
I could feel her fury radiating from two rows behind me like a space heater set to hell.
After the meeting, she cornered me by the coffee machine.
"Interesting," she said, stirring her latte slowly. "He picks you for the task force. The analyst who's been here—what, a year?"
"Fourteen months."
"I've been here five years, Nora." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Makes you wonder what you're doing to get noticed."
"Maybe my regression models are just that good," I said flatly.
She didn't laugh.
The task force meant one thing: close, daily contact with Alexander.
Meetings in his office. Late nights reviewing data. Sitting across from the man who, just last night, had sent me an audio message describing—in very specific detail—what he wanted to do to me the first time we met.
I was going to lose my mind.
The first task force meeting was that afternoon. The four of us gathered in Alexander's office—me, a senior analyst named Derek, a finance lead named Priya, and a strategist named Tom.
Alexander stood at the whiteboard, sleeves rolled up, marker in hand, outlining the project scope. He was laser-focused, precise, commanding. Everyone in the room hung on every word.
I tried to take notes, but my pen kept slipping because my palms were sweating.
"Nora."
I looked up.
"I need your data projections by Wednesday. Can you handle that?"
"Yes."
"Good." He held my gaze for a beat longer than necessary. "I'll want to review them with you before the Thursday presentation."
A private review. Just me and him.
"Of course," I said, my voice impressively steady for someone having an internal meltdown.
That night, I buried myself in work and tried not to think about the fact that my online boyfriend and my boss were converging into a single, unavoidable nightmare.
At 11 PM, a message came through.
[Are you still awake?]
I typed: [Always.]
[I want to tell you something. It might be weird.]
[Weirder than the time you sent me a voice note and accidentally included thirty seconds of you singing in the shower?]
[That was a good song and I stand by my performance.]
I smiled despite myself.
[Go ahead,] I typed.
[There's someone at my office. A woman. I never really noticed her before, but recently she was in a meeting and I couldn't stop looking at her. Not in a weird way. She just... reminded me of you. Something about the way she talked. Direct. No nonsense. Smart.]
My fingers froze over the keyboard.
[Don't worry,] he added quickly. [I'm not interested in her. She just made me think of you. Made me miss you more.]
I stared at the screen until the words blurred.
He was talking about me.
He was talking about me TO me.
I didn't know whether to laugh, scream, or throw my phone into the ocean.
[That's sweet,] I finally managed.
[You're not jealous?]
[Should I be?]
[No. Never. You're the only one. You know that.]
I pressed my phone against my forehead and took a long, shaky breath. Then I did something stupid. I typed: [What does she look like?]
[I don't really remember. Brown hair, maybe? Average height. She wore a blue shirt today, I think.]
I looked down at the blue shirt I was still wearing from work.
Incredible. Six months of sexting this man and he described me as "brown hair, maybe."
The hot-and-cold contrast between how he saw me online versus how he saw me in person was giving me whiplash.
Still, it also meant I was safe. He had zero clue.
I typed: [She sounds boring.]
[She's not, actually. Her work is impressive.]
[Okay, you can stop talking about her now.]
[Are you jealous?]
[Goodnight, Eleven.]
[You're jealous. I love it.]
I tossed my phone on the bed and pressed my pillow over my face.
Wednesday came fast. I'd finished the data projections and printed two copies—one for Alexander, one for myself. At 6 PM, the office started emptying out. By 7, most of the floor was dark.
My phone buzzed. A message from Alexander's work email.
*Come to my office when you're ready. —AW*
Professional. Curt. Classic Alexander.
I grabbed my laptop and the printouts, then paused to check Blind Flame.
Eleven's status: Active now.
My heart stuttered. If he was active on the app and also in his office, there was a chance he might message me while I was sitting right across from him.
I couldn't have my phone making sounds.
I turned it to silent, dropped it in my bag, and walked to his office.
He was standing by the window when I came in, looking out at the city skyline. His tie was loosened, top button undone. He looked tired, but when he turned, his expression was all business.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.
We spent the next hour going through the projections. He was thorough, intense, asking questions that pushed my analysis to its limits. But he was also fair—he acknowledged what worked and explained clearly what needed adjustment.
At one point, we both reached for the same printout. Our fingers brushed.
He pulled back like he'd touched a hot stove.
"Sorry," he muttered.
"It's fine."
An awkward silence.
He cleared his throat. "The model in section five—walk me through the assumptions again."
We kept going. By 8:30, we'd finished. I started packing up my things.
"Nora."
I stopped.
He was leaning against his desk, arms crossed, watching me with that unreadable expression again.
"Do you always stay this late?"
"Only when the work demands it."
"You should go home. Get some rest."
"I will. Thank you, Mr. Whitmore."
I was almost at the door when my bag vibrated. Not a buzz. A ringtone. My Blind Flame notification sound—the one I'd set specifically for Eleven.
The distinctive chime echoed in the quiet office.
I froze.
Behind me, I heard Alexander shift. Then his voice, slow and strange:
"That sound. What app is that?"
---
Alexander called an all-hands meeting to announce a company restructuring. Nothing dramatic—some team reassignments, new project groups, updated reporting lines.
But then he said something that made my stomach drop.
"Given the scope of the Meridian project, I'll be working directly with a smaller task force. I've selected the members based on recent performance."
He read off four names.
Mine was third.
Chloe's was not on the list.
I could feel her fury radiating from two rows behind me like a space heater set to hell.
After the meeting, she cornered me by the coffee machine.
"Interesting," she said, stirring her latte slowly. "He picks you for the task force. The analyst who's been here—what, a year?"
"Fourteen months."
"I've been here five years, Nora." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Makes you wonder what you're doing to get noticed."
"Maybe my regression models are just that good," I said flatly.
She didn't laugh.
The task force meant one thing: close, daily contact with Alexander.
Meetings in his office. Late nights reviewing data. Sitting across from the man who, just last night, had sent me an audio message describing—in very specific detail—what he wanted to do to me the first time we met.
I was going to lose my mind.
The first task force meeting was that afternoon. The four of us gathered in Alexander's office—me, a senior analyst named Derek, a finance lead named Priya, and a strategist named Tom.
Alexander stood at the whiteboard, sleeves rolled up, marker in hand, outlining the project scope. He was laser-focused, precise, commanding. Everyone in the room hung on every word.
I tried to take notes, but my pen kept slipping because my palms were sweating.
"Nora."
I looked up.
"I need your data projections by Wednesday. Can you handle that?"
"Yes."
"Good." He held my gaze for a beat longer than necessary. "I'll want to review them with you before the Thursday presentation."
A private review. Just me and him.
"Of course," I said, my voice impressively steady for someone having an internal meltdown.
That night, I buried myself in work and tried not to think about the fact that my online boyfriend and my boss were converging into a single, unavoidable nightmare.
At 11 PM, a message came through.
[Are you still awake?]
I typed: [Always.]
[I want to tell you something. It might be weird.]
[Weirder than the time you sent me a voice note and accidentally included thirty seconds of you singing in the shower?]
[That was a good song and I stand by my performance.]
I smiled despite myself.
[Go ahead,] I typed.
[There's someone at my office. A woman. I never really noticed her before, but recently she was in a meeting and I couldn't stop looking at her. Not in a weird way. She just... reminded me of you. Something about the way she talked. Direct. No nonsense. Smart.]
My fingers froze over the keyboard.
[Don't worry,] he added quickly. [I'm not interested in her. She just made me think of you. Made me miss you more.]
I stared at the screen until the words blurred.
He was talking about me.
He was talking about me TO me.
I didn't know whether to laugh, scream, or throw my phone into the ocean.
[That's sweet,] I finally managed.
[You're not jealous?]
[Should I be?]
[No. Never. You're the only one. You know that.]
I pressed my phone against my forehead and took a long, shaky breath. Then I did something stupid. I typed: [What does she look like?]
[I don't really remember. Brown hair, maybe? Average height. She wore a blue shirt today, I think.]
I looked down at the blue shirt I was still wearing from work.
Incredible. Six months of sexting this man and he described me as "brown hair, maybe."
The hot-and-cold contrast between how he saw me online versus how he saw me in person was giving me whiplash.
Still, it also meant I was safe. He had zero clue.
I typed: [She sounds boring.]
[She's not, actually. Her work is impressive.]
[Okay, you can stop talking about her now.]
[Are you jealous?]
[Goodnight, Eleven.]
[You're jealous. I love it.]
I tossed my phone on the bed and pressed my pillow over my face.
Wednesday came fast. I'd finished the data projections and printed two copies—one for Alexander, one for myself. At 6 PM, the office started emptying out. By 7, most of the floor was dark.
My phone buzzed. A message from Alexander's work email.
*Come to my office when you're ready. —AW*
Professional. Curt. Classic Alexander.
I grabbed my laptop and the printouts, then paused to check Blind Flame.
Eleven's status: Active now.
My heart stuttered. If he was active on the app and also in his office, there was a chance he might message me while I was sitting right across from him.
I couldn't have my phone making sounds.
I turned it to silent, dropped it in my bag, and walked to his office.
He was standing by the window when I came in, looking out at the city skyline. His tie was loosened, top button undone. He looked tired, but when he turned, his expression was all business.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.
We spent the next hour going through the projections. He was thorough, intense, asking questions that pushed my analysis to its limits. But he was also fair—he acknowledged what worked and explained clearly what needed adjustment.
At one point, we both reached for the same printout. Our fingers brushed.
He pulled back like he'd touched a hot stove.
"Sorry," he muttered.
"It's fine."
An awkward silence.
He cleared his throat. "The model in section five—walk me through the assumptions again."
We kept going. By 8:30, we'd finished. I started packing up my things.
"Nora."
I stopped.
He was leaning against his desk, arms crossed, watching me with that unreadable expression again.
"Do you always stay this late?"
"Only when the work demands it."
"You should go home. Get some rest."
"I will. Thank you, Mr. Whitmore."
I was almost at the door when my bag vibrated. Not a buzz. A ringtone. My Blind Flame notification sound—the one I'd set specifically for Eleven.
The distinctive chime echoed in the quiet office.
I froze.
Behind me, I heard Alexander shift. Then his voice, slow and strange:
"That sound. What app is that?"
---