Chapter 4
My brain short-circuited for exactly two seconds. Two seconds where I stood in the doorway, back turned to him, clutching my bag like it contained a live grenade.
Because it did. Metaphorically.
That notification chime was custom. Blind Flame let users set unique alert tones for their matches. Most people used the defaults. But Eleven and I had picked the same obscure jazz riff—a thirty-second clip from a Chet Baker song we'd both loved.
And right now, that same clip had just played from my bag, in his silent office, at 8:30 PM.
"It's nothing," I said, turning around with what I hoped was a casual expression. "Just a random app notification. You know how phones are."
Alexander stared at me. His jaw was tight, but then he exhaled and waved a hand. "Right. Go home, Nora."
I walked out of that office so fast I nearly tripped over the recycling bin.
Back at my desk, I yanked my phone out. One new message from Eleven.
[Missing you tonight. Wish I could hear your voice.]
He'd sent it at the exact moment I was standing in his office.
I collapsed into my chair and pressed both hands flat against my face. This was unsustainable. I was living in a romantic comedy written by someone who hated me.
The next morning, I took extreme precautions. I disabled all Blind Flame notifications. I turned off sound, vibration, banners—everything. If Eleven wanted to reach me during work hours, he'd have to wait.
But Alexander had other plans.
He appeared at my desk at 9:15 AM—something he never did. CEOs didn't visit analyst desks. It simply did not happen. The entire floor went silent as he approached, his leather shoes clicking on the polished floor like a countdown.
"Nora. The Thursday presentation has been moved to Friday. I need the revised projections by tomorrow evening." He placed a USB drive on my desk. "Updated parameters are on here."
"Understood, Mr. Whitmore."
He nodded, turned to leave, then paused. Without looking back, he said, "Also, the section five model. Your instinct was right. Keep the original assumptions."
Then he walked away.
Every single person on the floor stared at me.
Chloe, who had witnessed the entire exchange from her glass-walled office across the aisle, looked like she'd swallowed a wasp.
Derek leaned over from his desk. "Did the CEO just come to your desk to compliment your work?"
"He corrected a parameter," I said flatly. "That's not a compliment."
"He said your instinct was right. In five years, I've never heard him say anyone's instinct was right."
"Please stop talking."
I buried myself in work, but my brain wouldn't cooperate. It kept toggling between two impossible realities: Alexander, my cold and exacting boss, standing at my desk like it was a perfectly normal thing to do. And Eleven, my sweet and desperate online boyfriend, who last night had sent me a voice message that started with "I know you said no meeting, but—" and ended with "I'm falling apart without you."
By lunch, Chloe had manufactured a reason to reassert her dominance.
"Nora, I need you to handle the client call at two. I have a conflict."
"That's the Henderson account. I've never worked on Henderson."
"Then consider it a learning opportunity." She smiled her razor-blade smile. "Unless you'd rather I tell Mr. Whitmore you're not a team player?"
I took the call. It was a disaster. Henderson's team was aggressive, demanding data I didn't have, referencing agreements I'd never seen. I held my ground as best I could, but by the end, I was shaking with frustration.
At 3 PM, my personal phone buzzed in my desk drawer. I'd forgotten to disable regular text notifications.
Eleven: [Bad day?]
How did he always know?
I glanced toward his office. He was on his desk phone, leaning back in his chair, one hand rubbing his temple. Even while calling someone, he'd taken the time to message me.
[Yeah,] I typed under my desk. [Bad day.]
[Want to talk about it?]
[Can't right now. Working.]
[Me too. But I'd rather talk to you.]
I bit my lip hard enough to taste iron. Then I typed: [Tonight. Promise.]
[I'll be waiting.]
That evening, after most of the office had cleared out, I stayed to finish the revised projections. The floor was quiet except for the hum of the air conditioning and the distant sound of a vacuum somewhere below.
At 9 PM, I stretched and checked Blind Flame. Three messages from Eleven.
[Home now. Made pasta. Ate alone. Thought about you the entire time.]
[Sent you something. Check when you can.]
[No pressure.]
The "something" was a photo. Him, on his couch, in a white t-shirt and grey sweatpants. No face, as always—the photo was cropped at the chin. But I could see the sharp line of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, one arm stretched along the back of the couch.
And in his other hand, a single glass of red wine.
The caption: [Saving the other glass for you. Whenever you're ready.]
My heart did something embarrassing. It fluttered. Like an actual flutter, the kind I thought only happened in novels written by people who'd never experienced real cardiac events.
I typed: [You're making it very hard to maintain boundaries.]
[Good. That's the plan.]
I laughed—actually laughed, out loud, alone in a dark office.
Then I heard footsteps.
I looked up, and Alexander was walking through the floor, briefcase in hand, clearly having stayed late in his own office. He saw me, stopped, and frowned.
"You're still here?"
"Finishing the projections."
"I told you to go home."
"And I will. Once they're done."
He stood there, an odd expression on his face. In the low lighting, with his tie gone and his hair slightly disheveled, he looked less like a CEO and more like... Eleven.
"You work too hard," he said quietly.
"So do you."
Something flickered across his face. Surprise, maybe. People probably didn't talk back to him often.
"Fair point," he said. Then, almost awkwardly: "Don't stay too late."
He walked toward the elevator. I watched him go, his silhouette framed by the city lights beyond the glass.
My phone buzzed.
Eleven: [Just left the office. Walking to my car. The moon is beautiful tonight. Wish you were here to see it.]
I looked out the window. The moon was, in fact, beautiful.
I typed back: [I can see it too.]
[Then we're looking at the same moon. That's almost like being together.]
I closed my eyes.
This man was going to destroy me.
---
Because it did. Metaphorically.
That notification chime was custom. Blind Flame let users set unique alert tones for their matches. Most people used the defaults. But Eleven and I had picked the same obscure jazz riff—a thirty-second clip from a Chet Baker song we'd both loved.
And right now, that same clip had just played from my bag, in his silent office, at 8:30 PM.
"It's nothing," I said, turning around with what I hoped was a casual expression. "Just a random app notification. You know how phones are."
Alexander stared at me. His jaw was tight, but then he exhaled and waved a hand. "Right. Go home, Nora."
I walked out of that office so fast I nearly tripped over the recycling bin.
Back at my desk, I yanked my phone out. One new message from Eleven.
[Missing you tonight. Wish I could hear your voice.]
He'd sent it at the exact moment I was standing in his office.
I collapsed into my chair and pressed both hands flat against my face. This was unsustainable. I was living in a romantic comedy written by someone who hated me.
The next morning, I took extreme precautions. I disabled all Blind Flame notifications. I turned off sound, vibration, banners—everything. If Eleven wanted to reach me during work hours, he'd have to wait.
But Alexander had other plans.
He appeared at my desk at 9:15 AM—something he never did. CEOs didn't visit analyst desks. It simply did not happen. The entire floor went silent as he approached, his leather shoes clicking on the polished floor like a countdown.
"Nora. The Thursday presentation has been moved to Friday. I need the revised projections by tomorrow evening." He placed a USB drive on my desk. "Updated parameters are on here."
"Understood, Mr. Whitmore."
He nodded, turned to leave, then paused. Without looking back, he said, "Also, the section five model. Your instinct was right. Keep the original assumptions."
Then he walked away.
Every single person on the floor stared at me.
Chloe, who had witnessed the entire exchange from her glass-walled office across the aisle, looked like she'd swallowed a wasp.
Derek leaned over from his desk. "Did the CEO just come to your desk to compliment your work?"
"He corrected a parameter," I said flatly. "That's not a compliment."
"He said your instinct was right. In five years, I've never heard him say anyone's instinct was right."
"Please stop talking."
I buried myself in work, but my brain wouldn't cooperate. It kept toggling between two impossible realities: Alexander, my cold and exacting boss, standing at my desk like it was a perfectly normal thing to do. And Eleven, my sweet and desperate online boyfriend, who last night had sent me a voice message that started with "I know you said no meeting, but—" and ended with "I'm falling apart without you."
By lunch, Chloe had manufactured a reason to reassert her dominance.
"Nora, I need you to handle the client call at two. I have a conflict."
"That's the Henderson account. I've never worked on Henderson."
"Then consider it a learning opportunity." She smiled her razor-blade smile. "Unless you'd rather I tell Mr. Whitmore you're not a team player?"
I took the call. It was a disaster. Henderson's team was aggressive, demanding data I didn't have, referencing agreements I'd never seen. I held my ground as best I could, but by the end, I was shaking with frustration.
At 3 PM, my personal phone buzzed in my desk drawer. I'd forgotten to disable regular text notifications.
Eleven: [Bad day?]
How did he always know?
I glanced toward his office. He was on his desk phone, leaning back in his chair, one hand rubbing his temple. Even while calling someone, he'd taken the time to message me.
[Yeah,] I typed under my desk. [Bad day.]
[Want to talk about it?]
[Can't right now. Working.]
[Me too. But I'd rather talk to you.]
I bit my lip hard enough to taste iron. Then I typed: [Tonight. Promise.]
[I'll be waiting.]
That evening, after most of the office had cleared out, I stayed to finish the revised projections. The floor was quiet except for the hum of the air conditioning and the distant sound of a vacuum somewhere below.
At 9 PM, I stretched and checked Blind Flame. Three messages from Eleven.
[Home now. Made pasta. Ate alone. Thought about you the entire time.]
[Sent you something. Check when you can.]
[No pressure.]
The "something" was a photo. Him, on his couch, in a white t-shirt and grey sweatpants. No face, as always—the photo was cropped at the chin. But I could see the sharp line of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, one arm stretched along the back of the couch.
And in his other hand, a single glass of red wine.
The caption: [Saving the other glass for you. Whenever you're ready.]
My heart did something embarrassing. It fluttered. Like an actual flutter, the kind I thought only happened in novels written by people who'd never experienced real cardiac events.
I typed: [You're making it very hard to maintain boundaries.]
[Good. That's the plan.]
I laughed—actually laughed, out loud, alone in a dark office.
Then I heard footsteps.
I looked up, and Alexander was walking through the floor, briefcase in hand, clearly having stayed late in his own office. He saw me, stopped, and frowned.
"You're still here?"
"Finishing the projections."
"I told you to go home."
"And I will. Once they're done."
He stood there, an odd expression on his face. In the low lighting, with his tie gone and his hair slightly disheveled, he looked less like a CEO and more like... Eleven.
"You work too hard," he said quietly.
"So do you."
Something flickered across his face. Surprise, maybe. People probably didn't talk back to him often.
"Fair point," he said. Then, almost awkwardly: "Don't stay too late."
He walked toward the elevator. I watched him go, his silhouette framed by the city lights beyond the glass.
My phone buzzed.
Eleven: [Just left the office. Walking to my car. The moon is beautiful tonight. Wish you were here to see it.]
I looked out the window. The moon was, in fact, beautiful.
I typed back: [I can see it too.]
[Then we're looking at the same moon. That's almost like being together.]
I closed my eyes.
This man was going to destroy me.
---