The success of the "collaborative sovereignty" power stance had, unfortunately, cemented my new role as Alexander's unofficial Chief Theatrical Consultant. For two days, I'd fielded urgent queries about whether a cerulean blue tie projected "visionary calm" or "indecisive melancholy," and if the pacing rhythm for a difficult phone call should be "measured and ominous" or "agitated and unpredictable."
I was, in short, exhausted. My brain, trained in data analysis and economic theory, was now primarily occupied with the semiotics of accessory choices. I'd taken to hiding in the one place I thought was safe: the "hydration alcove," which was blessedly free of dramatic pronouncements and contained an expensive machine that dispensed water at seven different pH levels.
I was contemplating the existential implications of alkaline level 9.5 when I heard it.
It started as a low, rumbling sound from the direction of Alexander's private restroom, a door I'd never seen open. It was a chuckle, but wrong. It was forced, hesitant. It sounded like a lawnmower trying to start on a cold morning.
I froze, a cup of suspiciously smooth 9.5 water halfway to my lips.
There was a pause. Then, it came again. "Hmm-hmm-hmm-ha..." It cut off abruptly, followed by a frustrated sigh I could hear even through the door.
My curiosity, a dangerous and poorly trained animal at the best of times, overpowered my sense of self-preservation. I slid silently along the wall, pressing myself into the shadowy recess next to a cabinet full of artisanal sea salt and activated charcoal cleansers.
The door was slightly ajar.
"Ha... ha-ha... HA!" he tried again, this time with more force. It was better, but it still had the stilted quality of a middle-school drama student attempting Shakespeare. "No, no. Too nasal. Not enough... chest."
I squeezed my eyes shut, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound. Alexander Wilde, the man who held Fortune 500 companies in the palm of his hand, was in his bathroom, practicing his evil laugh.
"Mwu-ha... ha?" He sounded unsure. "No. Juvenile. Cliché."
There was a long silence. I heard the faint rustle of fabric, as if he were adjusting his stance in the mirror. I risked a glance through the crack in the door. I could see his reflection in the vast, well-lit mirror. He was staring at himself with intense concentration, his brow furrowed.
He took a deep, centering breath, the kind he used before his power stance. He leaned slightly forward, a glint in his eye.
"Hoo-hoo-hoo," he breathed, the sound low and silken. It was a vast improvement. Sinister, almost. But then he overcorrected. "HOO-HOO-HOOO!" It escalated into a near-cackle, losing all its menace and skidding into the territory of a hyena with a sinus infection.
He slammed his hand on the marble countertop. "Useless!" he hissed at his reflection. "How can I expect to intimidate Sebastian Thorn at the gala next week if my villainous mirth lacks gravitas? It's a critical tool of psychological warfare!"
I had to get out of there. The secondhand embarrassment was becoming physically painful. I started to inch away, but my elbow knocked against a decorative vial of "mood-enhancing" mist.
The sound was tiny, a delicate clink. But in the silence, it might as well have been a gunshot.
The rustling from the bathroom stopped.
I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs. I had two options: flee like a coward and be caught, or brazen it out.
I chose option three: a pathetic attempt at a cover story. I grabbed the vial of mist, turned on the sink, and started humming a tuneless, terribly unconvincing melody.
The bathroom door creaked open. Alexander stood there, looking uncharacteristically flustered. His hair was slightly mussed, and there were two spots of high color on his cheeks.
"Miss Chen," he said, his voice tight. "What are you doing?"
I turned, holding up the vial with what I hoped was an expression of serene innocence. "Just... replenishing the ambient aura spray, sir. The bergamot levels were depleting. Could you feel a dip in optimism?"
He eyed me suspiciously, his gaze flicking from me to the now-running sink. "I felt a... disturbance," he said carefully. "A dissonant frequency."
"Probably just the pH balance recalibrating," I said, gesturing wildly with the mist bottle. "It can be jarring." I gave the air a few frantic spritzes. The scent of aggressive optimism filled the alcove.
He didn't look convinced. He crossed his arms, adopting a version of the "collaborative sovereignty" stance right there in the doorway. "How long have you been standing there?"
"Just a moment," I said, my voice an octave too high. "I didn't hear a thing. Except the water. From the sink. Which I just turned on."
The silence stretched. He was studying me, and I knew he knew. The humiliation was complete.
Then, something unexpected happened. The defensive stiffness left his shoulders. He ran a hand through his hair, a genuinely vulnerable gesture. "It's harder than it looks, you know," he muttered, almost to himself. "Conveying menace without tipping into parody. The great cinematic villains make it seem effortless."
All my panic evaporated, replaced by a strange, protective fondness. This impossibly powerful, ridiculous man was worried about his laugh. Not his stock price, not his market share. His laugh.
I took a gamble. "The second one was good," I said quietly.
He looked up, startled. "What?"
"The... the low one. The 'Hoo-hoo-hoo'. It was... subtle. More Sith Lord than cartoon super-villain."
He stared at me. I braced for an explosion. Instead, a slow, reluctant smile touched his lips. "You think so?"
"I do. The cackle lacks... nuance. The lower register is more intimidating. It suggests you're already three steps ahead."
He considered this, a new light in his eyes. "Nuance. Yes. Nuance is key." He looked at me, and for the first time, there was no pretense, no performance. Just a man seeking honest feedback. "Thank you, Miss Chen."
He turned and walked back into his office, already practicing under his breath. "Hoo-hoo-hoo..."
I stood in the hydration alcove, the mist settling around me. I had just given the most powerful man I knew notes on his evil laugh. And he'd taken them.
This job was going to be the death of me. But as I heard a much-improved, genuinely chilling chuckle drift from his office, I had to admit: it was a hell of a way to go.