Chapter 9
I spent Thursday morning in a state of controlled panic.
Alexander hadn't mentioned the Facebook search. He had no reason to—people looked at coworkers' profiles all the time. Maybe he'd been clicking through the company directory and stumbled onto my linked personal account. Maybe it meant nothing.
But the timing felt deliberate.
I decided to test the waters. During our task force meeting, I mentioned—casually, offhandedly—that I'd been thinking about deleting my social media.
"Too much noise," I said, addressing the group but acutely aware of Alexander at the head of the table. "I barely post anything anyway."
Derek shrugged. Priya nodded sympathetically.
Alexander said nothing. But his pen stopped moving.
After the meeting, he lingered at the whiteboard while the others filed out. I gathered my notes slowly, waiting to see if he'd say something.
He didn't.
Fine. Maybe I was overthinking it.
That afternoon, Eleven sent me something unusual: a screenshot.
It was from Facebook—a profile search results page. My name, "Nora Chen," was typed into the search bar. Several results appeared, none of them me—my profile was too locked down to show up in general searches.
Below the screenshot, he wrote: [Random question. Is your name common? I was looking someone up and there are like forty of them.]
I stared at the screen, blood draining from my face.
He was looking for me. Specifically. By name.
But wait—he didn't know my name. I'd never told Eleven my real name. We used aliases. Mine was "Iris." His was "Eleven."
So he wasn't searching for me—his online girlfriend.
He was searching for me—his employee.
And he'd sent me the evidence without realizing the connection.
My hands trembled as I typed: [Nora Chen? That's a pretty name. Who is she?]
[The colleague I mentioned. The one who reminds me of you.]
[You're searching for her on Facebook?]
[I know it sounds creepy. I was just curious. She's so private at work—I barely know anything about her.]
[That IS creepy, Eleven.]
[I know. I'm sorry. I'll stop.]
[Why are you so interested in her?]
A pause. Then: [Honestly? I don't know. There's something about her that I can't explain. When she talks, I feel this pull—like my body recognizes something my brain hasn't caught up to yet.]
I set my phone down and pressed my palms flat on my desk.
He was feeling it. The connection. His subconscious was screaming what his conscious mind refused to hear.
I was running out of time.
That evening, I did something I'd never done before: I called my best friend, Maya.
Maya was the only person who knew about Eleven. She'd been my sounding board since the beginning, alternating between supportive ("That's so romantic!") and horrified ("He's your BOSS?!") with impressive agility.
"He's searching for me," I said, pacing my apartment. "Not me-me. Work-me. He's looking up Nora Chen on Facebook."
"Girl."
"He told his online girlfriend—me—that his employee—also me—reminds him of me."
"This is like a Russian nesting doll of disaster."
"What do I do?"
"You have three options. Tell him, dump him, or die. Personally, I recommend option one, because option three seems excessive."
"If I tell him, I lose my job."
"You don't know that. He might—"
"He's the CEO, Maya. There are policies. HR guidelines. He'd have to disclose it, and then everyone would know, and Chloe would literally end me—"
"Chloe can—"
"And what if he's angry? What if he feels deceived? I've been lying to him for six months. He thinks I'm some mysterious woman named Iris. I'm not mysterious. I'm his analyst who eats sad desk lunches and wears the same three blazers on rotation."
Maya was quiet for a moment. Then: "Do you love him?"
The question stopped me mid-pace.
"Which version?" I whispered.
"Both. Either. Whichever one makes your heart do the thing."
I sank onto my couch. "Both," I admitted. "It's the same person, Maya. The man who sends me love letters at midnight and the man who commands a boardroom—they're the same person, and I'm in love with both of them, and it's the most terrifying thing I've ever felt."
"Then you have to tell him. Not for him. For you. Because this secret is eating you alive, and you deserve to be loved in full daylight, not just through a screen."
She was right. I knew she was right.
But knowing and doing were two very different things.
Friday. Last day of the work week. I'd decided: I would tell him. Not today—but soon. This weekend. I'd write him a letter, explain everything, and let the chips fall where they may.
But the universe, as always, had other plans.
At 5 PM, Chloe called a team meeting. When I walked into the conference room, Alexander was already there, standing beside a woman I'd never seen before.
She was stunning. Tall, auburn hair, impeccable suit. She smiled like someone who owned every room she walked into.
"Everyone," Chloe announced with barely concealed glee, "this is Vivienne Cross. She'll be joining us as the new senior strategist, reporting directly to Mr. Whitmore."
Vivienne extended her hand to each of us. When she reached me, her grip was firm, her eye contact unwavering.
"Nora Chen," she read from a name card. "I've heard great things about your work."
"Thank you," I managed.
Then she turned to Alexander, and her smile shifted—warmer, more familiar.
"Alex," she said. "It's been too long."
Alex.
She called him Alex.
He nodded, his expression neutral but not cold. "Welcome aboard, Vivienne."
After the meeting, Derek leaned over. "They went to business school together. Rumor has it they dated."
The floor dropped out from under me.
That night, I stared at Blind Flame for hours. Eleven hadn't messaged me all evening—unusual for him. Finally, at 11 PM:
[Sorry for the silence. Long day. A friend from grad school started working at my company today. It was unexpected.]
[A friend?]
[Yes. From a long time ago.]
[Just a friend?]
[Yes. Why?]
[No reason.]
[Are you jealous?]
[No.]
[You are. I can tell.]
[How can you tell? You can't see my face.]
[I don't need to. I know you.]
But the question that burned in my chest wasn't about jealousy.
It was about time.
Time I'd wasted. Time I'd spent hiding. Time that had just run out.
Because if Vivienne Cross was back in Alexander's life, and she could smile at him openly, call him "Alex" in public, stand beside him without pretense or secrets—
Then what chance did I have?
A faceless ghost, hiding behind a screen, too afraid to step into the light.
I closed the app and turned off my phone.
For the first time in six months, I didn't say goodnight.
---
Alexander hadn't mentioned the Facebook search. He had no reason to—people looked at coworkers' profiles all the time. Maybe he'd been clicking through the company directory and stumbled onto my linked personal account. Maybe it meant nothing.
But the timing felt deliberate.
I decided to test the waters. During our task force meeting, I mentioned—casually, offhandedly—that I'd been thinking about deleting my social media.
"Too much noise," I said, addressing the group but acutely aware of Alexander at the head of the table. "I barely post anything anyway."
Derek shrugged. Priya nodded sympathetically.
Alexander said nothing. But his pen stopped moving.
After the meeting, he lingered at the whiteboard while the others filed out. I gathered my notes slowly, waiting to see if he'd say something.
He didn't.
Fine. Maybe I was overthinking it.
That afternoon, Eleven sent me something unusual: a screenshot.
It was from Facebook—a profile search results page. My name, "Nora Chen," was typed into the search bar. Several results appeared, none of them me—my profile was too locked down to show up in general searches.
Below the screenshot, he wrote: [Random question. Is your name common? I was looking someone up and there are like forty of them.]
I stared at the screen, blood draining from my face.
He was looking for me. Specifically. By name.
But wait—he didn't know my name. I'd never told Eleven my real name. We used aliases. Mine was "Iris." His was "Eleven."
So he wasn't searching for me—his online girlfriend.
He was searching for me—his employee.
And he'd sent me the evidence without realizing the connection.
My hands trembled as I typed: [Nora Chen? That's a pretty name. Who is she?]
[The colleague I mentioned. The one who reminds me of you.]
[You're searching for her on Facebook?]
[I know it sounds creepy. I was just curious. She's so private at work—I barely know anything about her.]
[That IS creepy, Eleven.]
[I know. I'm sorry. I'll stop.]
[Why are you so interested in her?]
A pause. Then: [Honestly? I don't know. There's something about her that I can't explain. When she talks, I feel this pull—like my body recognizes something my brain hasn't caught up to yet.]
I set my phone down and pressed my palms flat on my desk.
He was feeling it. The connection. His subconscious was screaming what his conscious mind refused to hear.
I was running out of time.
That evening, I did something I'd never done before: I called my best friend, Maya.
Maya was the only person who knew about Eleven. She'd been my sounding board since the beginning, alternating between supportive ("That's so romantic!") and horrified ("He's your BOSS?!") with impressive agility.
"He's searching for me," I said, pacing my apartment. "Not me-me. Work-me. He's looking up Nora Chen on Facebook."
"Girl."
"He told his online girlfriend—me—that his employee—also me—reminds him of me."
"This is like a Russian nesting doll of disaster."
"What do I do?"
"You have three options. Tell him, dump him, or die. Personally, I recommend option one, because option three seems excessive."
"If I tell him, I lose my job."
"You don't know that. He might—"
"He's the CEO, Maya. There are policies. HR guidelines. He'd have to disclose it, and then everyone would know, and Chloe would literally end me—"
"Chloe can—"
"And what if he's angry? What if he feels deceived? I've been lying to him for six months. He thinks I'm some mysterious woman named Iris. I'm not mysterious. I'm his analyst who eats sad desk lunches and wears the same three blazers on rotation."
Maya was quiet for a moment. Then: "Do you love him?"
The question stopped me mid-pace.
"Which version?" I whispered.
"Both. Either. Whichever one makes your heart do the thing."
I sank onto my couch. "Both," I admitted. "It's the same person, Maya. The man who sends me love letters at midnight and the man who commands a boardroom—they're the same person, and I'm in love with both of them, and it's the most terrifying thing I've ever felt."
"Then you have to tell him. Not for him. For you. Because this secret is eating you alive, and you deserve to be loved in full daylight, not just through a screen."
She was right. I knew she was right.
But knowing and doing were two very different things.
Friday. Last day of the work week. I'd decided: I would tell him. Not today—but soon. This weekend. I'd write him a letter, explain everything, and let the chips fall where they may.
But the universe, as always, had other plans.
At 5 PM, Chloe called a team meeting. When I walked into the conference room, Alexander was already there, standing beside a woman I'd never seen before.
She was stunning. Tall, auburn hair, impeccable suit. She smiled like someone who owned every room she walked into.
"Everyone," Chloe announced with barely concealed glee, "this is Vivienne Cross. She'll be joining us as the new senior strategist, reporting directly to Mr. Whitmore."
Vivienne extended her hand to each of us. When she reached me, her grip was firm, her eye contact unwavering.
"Nora Chen," she read from a name card. "I've heard great things about your work."
"Thank you," I managed.
Then she turned to Alexander, and her smile shifted—warmer, more familiar.
"Alex," she said. "It's been too long."
Alex.
She called him Alex.
He nodded, his expression neutral but not cold. "Welcome aboard, Vivienne."
After the meeting, Derek leaned over. "They went to business school together. Rumor has it they dated."
The floor dropped out from under me.
That night, I stared at Blind Flame for hours. Eleven hadn't messaged me all evening—unusual for him. Finally, at 11 PM:
[Sorry for the silence. Long day. A friend from grad school started working at my company today. It was unexpected.]
[A friend?]
[Yes. From a long time ago.]
[Just a friend?]
[Yes. Why?]
[No reason.]
[Are you jealous?]
[No.]
[You are. I can tell.]
[How can you tell? You can't see my face.]
[I don't need to. I know you.]
But the question that burned in my chest wasn't about jealousy.
It was about time.
Time I'd wasted. Time I'd spent hiding. Time that had just run out.
Because if Vivienne Cross was back in Alexander's life, and she could smile at him openly, call him "Alex" in public, stand beside him without pretense or secrets—
Then what chance did I have?
A faceless ghost, hiding behind a screen, too afraid to step into the light.
I closed the app and turned off my phone.
For the first time in six months, I didn't say goodnight.
---