Chapter 10
Saturday and Sunday passed in silence.
I didn't message Eleven. He sent twelve texts, four voice messages, and one photo of himself sitting on his kitchen floor, holding his cat (I didn't even know he had a cat), with the caption: [Even Mr. Darcy misses you. Please come back.]
I didn't reply.
Not because I was angry. Because I was making a decision.
Monday morning, I walked into the office with a plan: I would tell him this week. Face to face. Not through Blind Flame, not through a message. I'd walk into his office, close the door, and say, "I'm Iris."
And then I would accept whatever came next.
But first, I had to survive the day.
Vivienne had settled in with alarming speed. She was brilliant, charming, and effortlessly competent. By 10 AM, she'd already restructured the task force's presentation flow, suggested three improvements to our client strategy, and made Priya laugh—something that typically required at least two glasses of wine.
She also had an ease with Alexander that no one else possessed.
She'd knock on his door without waiting. She'd sit on the edge of his desk. She'd touch his arm when making a point, and he wouldn't flinch.
He flinched when I touched him. I'd noticed that. The accidental brush in his office, the time our shoulders bumped in the hallway—every physical contact made him pull back like he'd been burned.
With Vivienne, there was no burning. Just warmth.
I watched from my desk, pretending to work, and felt something dark and unfamiliar coil in my chest.
At noon, Vivienne approached me.
"Lunch?" she asked brightly. "I'm new and I don't know anyone. You seem like someone who'd show me the good spots."
I wanted to dislike her. It would have been easier if she were cold, or arrogant, or cruel. But she was genuinely kind, and that made everything worse.
We went to a café around the corner. Over salads, she told me about her career—stints in London, Singapore, New York—and how Alexander had recruited her personally.
"He called me out of the blue," she said, stirring her iced tea. "We hadn't spoken in years. But he said he needed someone he could trust for a critical project."
"That sounds like him."
"It does." She smiled, something nostalgic in her expression. "He's changed, though. Back in school, he was so closed off. Like a fortress. Now there's something different about him. Something softer. I wonder what happened."
I know what happened, I thought. I happened.
"People grow up," I said instead.
"They do." She paused, then leaned forward conspiratorially. "Can I be honest? When he called, I thought maybe—just maybe—he was reaching out for more than professional reasons. We had a thing in grad school. Brief, but intense." She shrugged. "But when I got here, I could tell immediately. He's in love with someone."
My fork froze midway to my mouth. "What?"
"I can see it. The way he checks his phone. The way he gets this distant look, like he's thinking about someone who isn't in the room. I know that look. I've seen it before—just never on him." She laughed softly. "Whoever she is, she's lucky."
I set my fork down. "He hasn't mentioned anyone."
"He wouldn't. He's Alexander. He'd rather perform open-heart surgery on himself than admit a feeling out loud." She took a bite of her salad. "But it's there. Trust me."
When we got back to the office, I went straight to the bathroom, locked myself in a stall, and opened Blind Flame.
Fourteen unread messages.
The last one, sent twenty minutes ago: [I know something's wrong. I know you're pulling away. Please don't shut me out. Whatever I did, I'll fix it. Just talk to me.]
I typed: [You didn't do anything wrong. I've been dealing with something.]
His reply was instantaneous: [Thank God. I thought I lost you.]
[You didn't.]
[Promise me.]
[I promise.]
[I love you. Please don't forget that.]
[I won't.]
I didn't say it back. I still couldn't.
Tuesday evening. The task force was working late. Alexander had ordered dinner—Thai food, from the place down the street. We ate in the conference room, papers and laptops spread around us like controlled chaos.
Vivienne was there too, fitting seamlessly into the group. She sat next to Alexander, their arms almost touching. At one point, she stole a spring roll from his plate and he just raised an eyebrow.
I stabbed my pad thai with unnecessary force.
"You okay?" Derek asked, noticing.
"Noodles are chewy," I muttered.
By 9 PM, the others had left. I was packing up when Alexander's voice stopped me.
"Nora. Can I talk to you?"
We were alone again. Conference room. Low lighting. The city glowing beyond the windows.
"I noticed you've been quiet this week," he said, standing across the table. "Is it the workload? I can redistribute—"
"It's not the workload."
"Is it Chloe? Because I spoke with her about the email incident, and—"
"It's not Chloe."
He waited.
I should have left it there. I should have smiled and said "I'm fine" and walked out.
Instead, something cracked open inside me, and words tumbled out before I could stop them.
"Do you ever feel like you're living two lives? Like there's who you are in one world, and who you are in another, and the gap between them is getting smaller every day, and you know—you know—that eventually they're going to collide, and when they do, everything will either be wonderful or completely destroyed?"
Alexander stared at me.
The silence stretched between us like a wire pulled taut.
Then he said, very quietly: "Every single day."
The wire snapped.
I felt tears prick my eyes and immediately looked down. "I should go."
"Nora—"
"Please." My voice cracked. "I need to go."
He didn't follow me.
I made it to the elevator before the first tear fell.
In the lobby, my phone buzzed.
Eleven: [Are you crying? I don't know why I feel like you're crying. But if you are, I wish I could hold you. I wish I could be wherever you are and just hold you until it stops.]
I leaned against the marble wall and let myself break.
---
I didn't message Eleven. He sent twelve texts, four voice messages, and one photo of himself sitting on his kitchen floor, holding his cat (I didn't even know he had a cat), with the caption: [Even Mr. Darcy misses you. Please come back.]
I didn't reply.
Not because I was angry. Because I was making a decision.
Monday morning, I walked into the office with a plan: I would tell him this week. Face to face. Not through Blind Flame, not through a message. I'd walk into his office, close the door, and say, "I'm Iris."
And then I would accept whatever came next.
But first, I had to survive the day.
Vivienne had settled in with alarming speed. She was brilliant, charming, and effortlessly competent. By 10 AM, she'd already restructured the task force's presentation flow, suggested three improvements to our client strategy, and made Priya laugh—something that typically required at least two glasses of wine.
She also had an ease with Alexander that no one else possessed.
She'd knock on his door without waiting. She'd sit on the edge of his desk. She'd touch his arm when making a point, and he wouldn't flinch.
He flinched when I touched him. I'd noticed that. The accidental brush in his office, the time our shoulders bumped in the hallway—every physical contact made him pull back like he'd been burned.
With Vivienne, there was no burning. Just warmth.
I watched from my desk, pretending to work, and felt something dark and unfamiliar coil in my chest.
At noon, Vivienne approached me.
"Lunch?" she asked brightly. "I'm new and I don't know anyone. You seem like someone who'd show me the good spots."
I wanted to dislike her. It would have been easier if she were cold, or arrogant, or cruel. But she was genuinely kind, and that made everything worse.
We went to a café around the corner. Over salads, she told me about her career—stints in London, Singapore, New York—and how Alexander had recruited her personally.
"He called me out of the blue," she said, stirring her iced tea. "We hadn't spoken in years. But he said he needed someone he could trust for a critical project."
"That sounds like him."
"It does." She smiled, something nostalgic in her expression. "He's changed, though. Back in school, he was so closed off. Like a fortress. Now there's something different about him. Something softer. I wonder what happened."
I know what happened, I thought. I happened.
"People grow up," I said instead.
"They do." She paused, then leaned forward conspiratorially. "Can I be honest? When he called, I thought maybe—just maybe—he was reaching out for more than professional reasons. We had a thing in grad school. Brief, but intense." She shrugged. "But when I got here, I could tell immediately. He's in love with someone."
My fork froze midway to my mouth. "What?"
"I can see it. The way he checks his phone. The way he gets this distant look, like he's thinking about someone who isn't in the room. I know that look. I've seen it before—just never on him." She laughed softly. "Whoever she is, she's lucky."
I set my fork down. "He hasn't mentioned anyone."
"He wouldn't. He's Alexander. He'd rather perform open-heart surgery on himself than admit a feeling out loud." She took a bite of her salad. "But it's there. Trust me."
When we got back to the office, I went straight to the bathroom, locked myself in a stall, and opened Blind Flame.
Fourteen unread messages.
The last one, sent twenty minutes ago: [I know something's wrong. I know you're pulling away. Please don't shut me out. Whatever I did, I'll fix it. Just talk to me.]
I typed: [You didn't do anything wrong. I've been dealing with something.]
His reply was instantaneous: [Thank God. I thought I lost you.]
[You didn't.]
[Promise me.]
[I promise.]
[I love you. Please don't forget that.]
[I won't.]
I didn't say it back. I still couldn't.
Tuesday evening. The task force was working late. Alexander had ordered dinner—Thai food, from the place down the street. We ate in the conference room, papers and laptops spread around us like controlled chaos.
Vivienne was there too, fitting seamlessly into the group. She sat next to Alexander, their arms almost touching. At one point, she stole a spring roll from his plate and he just raised an eyebrow.
I stabbed my pad thai with unnecessary force.
"You okay?" Derek asked, noticing.
"Noodles are chewy," I muttered.
By 9 PM, the others had left. I was packing up when Alexander's voice stopped me.
"Nora. Can I talk to you?"
We were alone again. Conference room. Low lighting. The city glowing beyond the windows.
"I noticed you've been quiet this week," he said, standing across the table. "Is it the workload? I can redistribute—"
"It's not the workload."
"Is it Chloe? Because I spoke with her about the email incident, and—"
"It's not Chloe."
He waited.
I should have left it there. I should have smiled and said "I'm fine" and walked out.
Instead, something cracked open inside me, and words tumbled out before I could stop them.
"Do you ever feel like you're living two lives? Like there's who you are in one world, and who you are in another, and the gap between them is getting smaller every day, and you know—you know—that eventually they're going to collide, and when they do, everything will either be wonderful or completely destroyed?"
Alexander stared at me.
The silence stretched between us like a wire pulled taut.
Then he said, very quietly: "Every single day."
The wire snapped.
I felt tears prick my eyes and immediately looked down. "I should go."
"Nora—"
"Please." My voice cracked. "I need to go."
He didn't follow me.
I made it to the elevator before the first tear fell.
In the lobby, my phone buzzed.
Eleven: [Are you crying? I don't know why I feel like you're crying. But if you are, I wish I could hold you. I wish I could be wherever you are and just hold you until it stops.]
I leaned against the marble wall and let myself break.
---