Chapter 7
We flew back from Chicago on Friday evening. The trip had been a success—the client signed a preliminary agreement, and Alexander seemed almost relaxed on the return flight. Almost.
He sat next to me again. This time, neither of us slept.
He read a book—Murakami, I noticed, because of course it was—and I pretended to watch a movie while actually rereading our Blind Flame messages from the past week.
When we landed, he said, "Good work this week, Nora. All of you."
But he was looking at me when he said it.
Over the weekend, I tried to establish boundaries. I told myself: this cannot continue. You are developing feelings for a man in two separate contexts, and both paths lead to catastrophe.
Option A: Tell Eleven who I am. He discovers his anonymous girlfriend is a subordinate. Things get awkward, HR gets involved, I get fired, and I spend the rest of my career explaining why I got terminated from a Fortune 500 company.
Option B: Break up with Eleven. Lose the only genuine emotional connection I've had in years. Watch Alexander move on, possibly with someone like Chloe, and slowly die inside.
Option C: Continue living this double life until it inevitably implodes in the most spectacular way possible.
I chose Option C because I was a coward.
Monday morning. Chloe was waiting for me.
"How was Chicago?" She perched on the edge of my desk, legs crossed, smiling in a way that showed too many teeth.
"Productive."
"I heard Mr. Whitmore was very impressed with you." She leaned in. "People are starting to talk."
"About what?"
"About why, exactly, the CEO is taking such a personal interest in a junior analyst." Her smile didn't waver. "I'm sure it's all professional. But you know how offices are. Rumors spread."
My blood ran cold. "There's nothing to talk about. I did my job."
"Of course you did." She stood, smoothing her skirt. "Just be careful, Nora. Attention from powerful men isn't always a gift. Sometimes it's a target."
She walked away, heels clicking like a metronome.
I wanted to scream. Instead, I opened my laptop and threw myself into work.
But Chloe's words rattled around in my head all day. Were people really talking? Was my professional reputation being undermined because Alexander had—what? Acknowledged my competence?
The injustice of it burned. I hadn't asked for any of this. I hadn't flirted, hadn't leveraged our secret connection, hadn't done anything except show up and do good work.
That afternoon, I ran into Alexander in the elevator. Just the two of us.
Thirty-seven floors of silence.
"Mr. Whitmore," I said, staring at the doors.
"Nora."
Twelve seconds passed.
"I wanted to mention," I said carefully, "that I'd prefer if future task force assignments went through Chloe. For the chain of command."
He turned to look at me. "Why?"
"It's more appropriate. She's my direct supervisor."
"Chloe Barnett didn't build the data model that won us the Meridian account. You did." His voice had an edge. "I choose my team based on capability, not hierarchy."
"I understand. But appearances matter."
"Appearances." He repeated the word like it tasted bitter. "Someone said something to you."
It wasn't a question.
"No one said anything."
"You're a terrible liar."
The elevator dinged. The doors opened to the lobby. I stepped out first.
"Nora."
I turned.
"If someone is making you uncomfortable, I want to know."
"No one is, sir. Thank you."
I walked away before he could see the conflict on my face.
That night, Eleven was agitated.
[Something happened at work today and I can't stop thinking about it.]
[What happened?]
[Someone on my team—someone talented, someone I respect—basically told me to back off. To stop giving her opportunities because people are talking.]
My hands went clammy.
[That sounds frustrating,] I typed neutrally.
[It's infuriating. She earned every assignment. The idea that recognizing competence gets twisted into something inappropriate makes me sick.]
[Maybe she's just trying to protect herself. Office politics are brutal, especially for women.]
A pause. [You're right. I know you're right. But it still bothers me. She shouldn't have to dim herself because other people are insecure.]
I closed my eyes. He was defending me. To me.
[You sound like you care about her,] I typed.
[I care about fairness.]
[That's not what I asked.]
A long silence. Then: [She's my employee. I care about all my employees.]
[Okay.]
[Why do I feel like you don't believe me?]
[Because you've never talked about any other employee the way you talk about her.]
Another silence. Longer this time.
[I'm going to be honest with you,] he wrote. [Because I promised I always would be.]
My heart stopped.
[She reminds me of you. And I don't know why. And it's confusing because you're the only person I want, but sometimes when I'm talking to her, I get this feeling—like déjà vu, like I've heard her voice before, like there's something just beyond my reach that I can't quite see.]
I stared at the screen.
He was getting closer.
The walls were thinning.
I typed: [Maybe you're just lonely, and any woman who treats you like a human being reminds you of the only one who does it consistently.]
[Wow. That's brutal.]
[You said you wanted honesty.]
[I did. And you're probably right. I'm sorry. I don't want to make you uncomfortable.]
[You didn't. I just want you to be clear about what you feel. For both our sakes.]
[I'm clear. It's you. It's always been you.]
I wanted to believe him. But for the first time since this started, I felt a crack forming. Not in our relationship—in my armor.
Because the truth was, I wasn't just afraid of him finding out.
I was afraid that when he did, he'd look at me—the real me, brown hair and blue shirt and unremarkable desk on the twelfth floor—and realize the woman he loved was just... ordinary.
That the magic only existed because of the mystery.
And without it, I was just Nora Chen, analyst, employee number 4471, who used too much concealer and ate lunch alone.
My phone buzzed one more time.
[Goodnight, my love. Dream of me.]
I turned off the light and lay in the dark, terrified.
Because I already did.
---
He sat next to me again. This time, neither of us slept.
He read a book—Murakami, I noticed, because of course it was—and I pretended to watch a movie while actually rereading our Blind Flame messages from the past week.
When we landed, he said, "Good work this week, Nora. All of you."
But he was looking at me when he said it.
Over the weekend, I tried to establish boundaries. I told myself: this cannot continue. You are developing feelings for a man in two separate contexts, and both paths lead to catastrophe.
Option A: Tell Eleven who I am. He discovers his anonymous girlfriend is a subordinate. Things get awkward, HR gets involved, I get fired, and I spend the rest of my career explaining why I got terminated from a Fortune 500 company.
Option B: Break up with Eleven. Lose the only genuine emotional connection I've had in years. Watch Alexander move on, possibly with someone like Chloe, and slowly die inside.
Option C: Continue living this double life until it inevitably implodes in the most spectacular way possible.
I chose Option C because I was a coward.
Monday morning. Chloe was waiting for me.
"How was Chicago?" She perched on the edge of my desk, legs crossed, smiling in a way that showed too many teeth.
"Productive."
"I heard Mr. Whitmore was very impressed with you." She leaned in. "People are starting to talk."
"About what?"
"About why, exactly, the CEO is taking such a personal interest in a junior analyst." Her smile didn't waver. "I'm sure it's all professional. But you know how offices are. Rumors spread."
My blood ran cold. "There's nothing to talk about. I did my job."
"Of course you did." She stood, smoothing her skirt. "Just be careful, Nora. Attention from powerful men isn't always a gift. Sometimes it's a target."
She walked away, heels clicking like a metronome.
I wanted to scream. Instead, I opened my laptop and threw myself into work.
But Chloe's words rattled around in my head all day. Were people really talking? Was my professional reputation being undermined because Alexander had—what? Acknowledged my competence?
The injustice of it burned. I hadn't asked for any of this. I hadn't flirted, hadn't leveraged our secret connection, hadn't done anything except show up and do good work.
That afternoon, I ran into Alexander in the elevator. Just the two of us.
Thirty-seven floors of silence.
"Mr. Whitmore," I said, staring at the doors.
"Nora."
Twelve seconds passed.
"I wanted to mention," I said carefully, "that I'd prefer if future task force assignments went through Chloe. For the chain of command."
He turned to look at me. "Why?"
"It's more appropriate. She's my direct supervisor."
"Chloe Barnett didn't build the data model that won us the Meridian account. You did." His voice had an edge. "I choose my team based on capability, not hierarchy."
"I understand. But appearances matter."
"Appearances." He repeated the word like it tasted bitter. "Someone said something to you."
It wasn't a question.
"No one said anything."
"You're a terrible liar."
The elevator dinged. The doors opened to the lobby. I stepped out first.
"Nora."
I turned.
"If someone is making you uncomfortable, I want to know."
"No one is, sir. Thank you."
I walked away before he could see the conflict on my face.
That night, Eleven was agitated.
[Something happened at work today and I can't stop thinking about it.]
[What happened?]
[Someone on my team—someone talented, someone I respect—basically told me to back off. To stop giving her opportunities because people are talking.]
My hands went clammy.
[That sounds frustrating,] I typed neutrally.
[It's infuriating. She earned every assignment. The idea that recognizing competence gets twisted into something inappropriate makes me sick.]
[Maybe she's just trying to protect herself. Office politics are brutal, especially for women.]
A pause. [You're right. I know you're right. But it still bothers me. She shouldn't have to dim herself because other people are insecure.]
I closed my eyes. He was defending me. To me.
[You sound like you care about her,] I typed.
[I care about fairness.]
[That's not what I asked.]
A long silence. Then: [She's my employee. I care about all my employees.]
[Okay.]
[Why do I feel like you don't believe me?]
[Because you've never talked about any other employee the way you talk about her.]
Another silence. Longer this time.
[I'm going to be honest with you,] he wrote. [Because I promised I always would be.]
My heart stopped.
[She reminds me of you. And I don't know why. And it's confusing because you're the only person I want, but sometimes when I'm talking to her, I get this feeling—like déjà vu, like I've heard her voice before, like there's something just beyond my reach that I can't quite see.]
I stared at the screen.
He was getting closer.
The walls were thinning.
I typed: [Maybe you're just lonely, and any woman who treats you like a human being reminds you of the only one who does it consistently.]
[Wow. That's brutal.]
[You said you wanted honesty.]
[I did. And you're probably right. I'm sorry. I don't want to make you uncomfortable.]
[You didn't. I just want you to be clear about what you feel. For both our sakes.]
[I'm clear. It's you. It's always been you.]
I wanted to believe him. But for the first time since this started, I felt a crack forming. Not in our relationship—in my armor.
Because the truth was, I wasn't just afraid of him finding out.
I was afraid that when he did, he'd look at me—the real me, brown hair and blue shirt and unremarkable desk on the twelfth floor—and realize the woman he loved was just... ordinary.
That the magic only existed because of the mystery.
And without it, I was just Nora Chen, analyst, employee number 4471, who used too much concealer and ate lunch alone.
My phone buzzed one more time.
[Goodnight, my love. Dream of me.]
I turned off the light and lay in the dark, terrified.
Because I already did.
---