Chapter 11
I took Wednesday off.
I told Chloe I was sick. She didn't argue—probably relieved to have me out of the way for a day.
I spent the morning in bed, Mr. Darcy videos playing on loop (Eleven had sent dozens over the past few days, and I'd saved every one), trying to assemble the shattered pieces of my emotional state into something functional.
By noon, I'd made a decision.
No more waiting. No more "soon." I would tell him tonight.
I'd write everything in a message. Who I was. How it started. Why I kept it secret. And then I'd let him decide.
If he wanted to fire me, fine. If he wanted to never speak to me again, I'd survive. But I couldn't live in this liminal space anymore—half ghost, half woman, fully in love with a man who deserved to know the truth.
I spent three hours crafting the message. I wrote it, deleted it, wrote it again. I agonized over every word.
At 4 PM, my phone rang. Not a notification. An actual call.
From Alexander's personal number.
Wait—I didn't have Alexander's personal number. This was coming to my work phone.
I answered, confused. "Hello?"
"Nora. It's Alexander Whitmore."
His voice—God, his voice—was tight. Controlled.
"Mr. Whitmore. I'm sorry for the absence, I wasn't feeling—"
"Are you at home?"
"Yes."
"Are you safe?"
The question was strange. Urgent. "Yes, I'm fine. It's just a bug."
A pause. "Good. I—" He stopped. Took a breath. "I'm glad you're okay."
Then he hung up.
I stared at my phone for a full minute. That was the most un-Alexander phone call I could imagine. He'd sounded almost... worried.
Ten minutes later, Eleven messaged: [I called someone today. Someone from work. I just needed to know she was okay. I can't explain why. I just felt like something was wrong.]
My chest constricted.
He'd called me because he was worried about me.
Not his online girlfriend. His employee.
The walls weren't thinning anymore. They were gone. He just hadn't looked down to see the rubble.
I opened my draft message. Read it one more time. My finger hovered over "send."
Then a new message from Eleven appeared:
[Can I tell you something I've never told anyone?]
I moved my finger away from "send." [Of course.]
[I think I've been lying to myself. About the woman at work.]
My pulse thundered.
[I told you she just reminds me of you. That it's just familiarity. But that's not true. The truth is, I think about her constantly. When she's in a meeting, I can't focus on anything else. When she smiles—which isn't often—I feel like the room gets brighter. And when she looked at me last night with tears in her eyes, I wanted to walk around that table and hold her, and it took every ounce of self-control I had not to.]
I couldn't breathe.
[I think I have feelings for her. And it's tearing me apart, because I love YOU. You're the one I chose. You're the one I've been building this with. But she's RIGHT THERE, and I can't stop—]
He stopped typing. Three dots appeared and disappeared. Then:
[I'm the worst person alive. I'm falling for two women at the same time. What kind of man does that make me?]
I was laughing and crying simultaneously. Sitting on my bed, phone shaking in my hands, mascara running down my cheeks, laughing because it was so absurd, so perfectly, impossibly absurd.
He was falling for two women. And they were both me.
I typed, tears blurring my vision: [What if you're not falling for two women?]
[What?]
[What if it's just one?]
[I don't understand.]
[What if the reason she reminds you of me is because she IS me?]
The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
[Iris, what are you saying?]
This was it. The moment. No more drafts, no more rehearsals.
I deleted the carefully crafted three-hour message. Instead, I wrote six words.
[My name is Nora Chen.]
Nothing happened for one minute. Then two. Then five.
At minute seven, my phone rang.
Eleven—Alexander—was calling. Through Blind Flame. A voice call.
We'd never done a voice call.
My hand trembled as I answered.
Silence. Just breathing. His and mine, separated by cell towers and secrets and six months of fear.
Then his voice, barely a whisper:
"It was you? This whole time?"
"Yes," I breathed. "I'm sorry."
A sound that might have been a laugh. Or a sob. "The rounding convention in footnote twelve."
"What?"
"That day—the email from Chloe. You were furious. That night, Iris—you—were quieter than usual. I couldn't figure out why." A shaky exhale. "It was you. It was always you."
"Are you angry?"
Silence.
"Alexander."
"I'm coming to you," he said.
"What—"
"What's your address?"
"You can't just—"
"Nora. I have spent six months falling in love with a woman through a screen. And I have spent three months falling in love with the same woman across a conference table. And you're telling me that they're the same person. So either you give me your address right now, or I will drive to every apartment building in this city until I find you."
I gave him my address.
Then I ran to the bathroom, looked at my reflection—red eyes, messy hair, oversized hoodie—and whispered, "You absolute disaster of a human being."
Twenty-three minutes later, there was a knock on my door.
---
I told Chloe I was sick. She didn't argue—probably relieved to have me out of the way for a day.
I spent the morning in bed, Mr. Darcy videos playing on loop (Eleven had sent dozens over the past few days, and I'd saved every one), trying to assemble the shattered pieces of my emotional state into something functional.
By noon, I'd made a decision.
No more waiting. No more "soon." I would tell him tonight.
I'd write everything in a message. Who I was. How it started. Why I kept it secret. And then I'd let him decide.
If he wanted to fire me, fine. If he wanted to never speak to me again, I'd survive. But I couldn't live in this liminal space anymore—half ghost, half woman, fully in love with a man who deserved to know the truth.
I spent three hours crafting the message. I wrote it, deleted it, wrote it again. I agonized over every word.
At 4 PM, my phone rang. Not a notification. An actual call.
From Alexander's personal number.
Wait—I didn't have Alexander's personal number. This was coming to my work phone.
I answered, confused. "Hello?"
"Nora. It's Alexander Whitmore."
His voice—God, his voice—was tight. Controlled.
"Mr. Whitmore. I'm sorry for the absence, I wasn't feeling—"
"Are you at home?"
"Yes."
"Are you safe?"
The question was strange. Urgent. "Yes, I'm fine. It's just a bug."
A pause. "Good. I—" He stopped. Took a breath. "I'm glad you're okay."
Then he hung up.
I stared at my phone for a full minute. That was the most un-Alexander phone call I could imagine. He'd sounded almost... worried.
Ten minutes later, Eleven messaged: [I called someone today. Someone from work. I just needed to know she was okay. I can't explain why. I just felt like something was wrong.]
My chest constricted.
He'd called me because he was worried about me.
Not his online girlfriend. His employee.
The walls weren't thinning anymore. They were gone. He just hadn't looked down to see the rubble.
I opened my draft message. Read it one more time. My finger hovered over "send."
Then a new message from Eleven appeared:
[Can I tell you something I've never told anyone?]
I moved my finger away from "send." [Of course.]
[I think I've been lying to myself. About the woman at work.]
My pulse thundered.
[I told you she just reminds me of you. That it's just familiarity. But that's not true. The truth is, I think about her constantly. When she's in a meeting, I can't focus on anything else. When she smiles—which isn't often—I feel like the room gets brighter. And when she looked at me last night with tears in her eyes, I wanted to walk around that table and hold her, and it took every ounce of self-control I had not to.]
I couldn't breathe.
[I think I have feelings for her. And it's tearing me apart, because I love YOU. You're the one I chose. You're the one I've been building this with. But she's RIGHT THERE, and I can't stop—]
He stopped typing. Three dots appeared and disappeared. Then:
[I'm the worst person alive. I'm falling for two women at the same time. What kind of man does that make me?]
I was laughing and crying simultaneously. Sitting on my bed, phone shaking in my hands, mascara running down my cheeks, laughing because it was so absurd, so perfectly, impossibly absurd.
He was falling for two women. And they were both me.
I typed, tears blurring my vision: [What if you're not falling for two women?]
[What?]
[What if it's just one?]
[I don't understand.]
[What if the reason she reminds you of me is because she IS me?]
The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
[Iris, what are you saying?]
This was it. The moment. No more drafts, no more rehearsals.
I deleted the carefully crafted three-hour message. Instead, I wrote six words.
[My name is Nora Chen.]
Nothing happened for one minute. Then two. Then five.
At minute seven, my phone rang.
Eleven—Alexander—was calling. Through Blind Flame. A voice call.
We'd never done a voice call.
My hand trembled as I answered.
Silence. Just breathing. His and mine, separated by cell towers and secrets and six months of fear.
Then his voice, barely a whisper:
"It was you? This whole time?"
"Yes," I breathed. "I'm sorry."
A sound that might have been a laugh. Or a sob. "The rounding convention in footnote twelve."
"What?"
"That day—the email from Chloe. You were furious. That night, Iris—you—were quieter than usual. I couldn't figure out why." A shaky exhale. "It was you. It was always you."
"Are you angry?"
Silence.
"Alexander."
"I'm coming to you," he said.
"What—"
"What's your address?"
"You can't just—"
"Nora. I have spent six months falling in love with a woman through a screen. And I have spent three months falling in love with the same woman across a conference table. And you're telling me that they're the same person. So either you give me your address right now, or I will drive to every apartment building in this city until I find you."
I gave him my address.
Then I ran to the bathroom, looked at my reflection—red eyes, messy hair, oversized hoodie—and whispered, "You absolute disaster of a human being."
Twenty-three minutes later, there was a knock on my door.
---