The terrace project became my obsession. It was a tangible rebellion, a way to claw back a piece of myself from the pristine, controlling environment Alexander had built. With the financial shackles loosened, a new kind of energy coursed through me. a fierce, almost desperate need to create, to leave a mark on this place that was not his, but ours, even if the "ours" was a legal fiction.
The initial sketches I'd shown him were just the seed. Over the next two days, they blossomed into full-blown architectural plans. I measured the space with a laser tape I'd ordered, my fingers tracing the rough, cold stone where I envisioned warm, reclaimed wood planters overflowing with life. I spent hours on video calls with a landscape artist named Sofia, whose hands were stained with earth and whose eyes lit up when I described wanting a space that felt "lived-in, not designed."
"It needs a soul," I'd told her, and she'd understood perfectly.
This was my fight. Not with Alexander, but with the very essence of his world. a world of sharp edges and sterile perfection. My rebellion would be softness. It would be fragrance and texture and the gentle, chaotic beauty of things that grew.
On the third day after my financial purge, a crate arrived. It was addressed to me, but the return label was from a corporate logistics center, not a nursery. Puzzled, I had Mariela help me pry it open. Inside, nestled in custom-cut foam, was not a plant, but a set of tools. Not just any tools. They were heirloom quality, with polished rosewood handles and steel blades that gleamed with a dark, oiled sheen. A trowel, a transplanter, a cultivator. They were beautiful, perfectly balanced in my hand, and utterly unexpected.
There was no note.
My first, foolish thought was of Alexander. Had he sent them? A peace offering from Tokyo? A silent acknowledgment of my project? But the thought died as quickly as it was born. It was inefficient. He would have delegated it to Julian, who would have sent a perfunctory email. These felt… personal. And Alexander did not do personal.
"Must be a mistake," Mariela murmured, frowning at the luxurious tools.
"Must be," I agreed, but a strange certainty settled in my gut. It wasn't a mistake.
Later that afternoon, driven by a restless curiosity, I found myself standing outside the one place in the penthouse that was explicitly forbidden: Alexander's office. The door was, as always, firmly shut. But next to it, in a small, shadowed alcove I'd never noticed before, stood another door. It was narrower, less imposing. A storage closet, perhaps.
I glanced around. The penthouse was silent. Mariela had left for the day.
You will not enter my office or my bedroom without explicit invitation.
This wasn't his office. This was a closet.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I turned the knob. It was unlocked.
The room was dark, smelling faintly of ozone and dust. I fumbled for a light switch, and a single, bare bulb flickered on overhead.
It wasn't a storage closet.
It was a gallery.
The space was long and narrow, windowless. And leaning against every wall, stacked three and four deep, were canvases. Dozens of them. My breath caught. They were paintings. Not the bland, corporate-approved abstract art that hung in the living areas, but real, visceral, powerful paintings.
I took a step inside, my heart pounding. These were originals. I could smell the oil paint, see the thick, textured impasto of the brushstrokes. The style was bold, expressive, full of raw emotion and tumultuous color. They were landscapes, but not peaceful ones. They depicted storm-wracked seas, jagged mountain ranges under brooding skies, fields of wheat being lashed by a coming gale. There was a wild, almost angry energy to them, a deep, romantic passion that was the absolute antithesis of the man I knew.
This was a secret. A massive, breathtaking secret.
My gaze swept over the paintings, and then fell to a small, wooden crate tucked into a corner. It was open. Inside, nestled in packing material, were more tools. Tubes of oil paint, their labels well-worn. Brushes, their handles stained with a rainbow of pigments. A palette, thick with layers of dried color.
Alexander Vance painted.
The Ice King of Silicon Valley, the man who traded in data and dispassion, secretly wielded a brush to create these storms of emotion on canvas.
The revelation struck me with the force of a physical blow. I stumbled back, hitting the wall, my mind reeling. This changed everything. This wasn't just a hidden hobby; this was a hidden heart. A heart that felt things deeply, passionately, and had locked it all away in this dark, windowless room.
The man who had dismissed my art as an "interesting passion" was a closet artist himself. The man who had built a life of sterile control was secretly in love with chaos and storms.
I thought of the tools that had arrived. Had he, in some fit of strange, distant kinship, sent them? Or was it another secret he kept, another thread in a life I knew nothing about?
I quickly turned off the light and slipped out, closing the door softly behind me. I stood in the hallway, my back pressed against the wall, trying to catch my breath.
The penthouse no longer felt like a sterile fortress. It felt like a lie. The real Alexander Vance wasn't the man in the suit who had laid out the rules. The real man was in those paintings. a turbulent, passionate, hidden soul.
And I had just discovered his greatest secret.