The foam noodles did not, by some small miracle, materialize in the lobby. I attributed this to Sterling's silent, heroic bureaucracy. The team-building resentment, however, lingered like a bad smell, proving more persistent than the bergamot-infused aura of the Aura-Weaver filters. For three days, a tense quiet had fallen over the executive floor. Alexander was uncharacteristically subdued, staring out at the cityscape as if searching for an answer in the skyline.
On the fourth morning, the silence broke. My tablet chimed with a priority alert, the notification tone a dramatic, three-note cello riff that always signified maximum Wilde-ness.
TASK: THE MENAGERIE INITIATIVE
Objective: Facilitate the acquisition of the struggling "Havenworth Animal Sanctuary." Background: The board is questioning my capacity for nurturing long-term growth. My synergy is being labeled as "aggressive." My aura, "disruptive." They fail to see the cultivator within the conqueror. Strategic Imperative: We must demonstrate our commitment to stewardship, to gentle nurturing, to the protection of vulnerable, beautiful things. We must show them my softer side. Note: The sanctuary has two aging snow leopards, a capybara family, and a notoriously grumpy penguin named Percival. Ensure the penguin is part of the deal. I feel a kinship.
I read the message. Then I read it again. I looked up from my floating marble slab towards Alexander's office. He was watching me, his expression one of grave purpose, like a general about to send his best spy behind enemy lines.
I stood up and walked to his doorway, the tablet held limply in my hand. "Sir. You want to buy a zoo."
"Not a zoo, Miss Chen," he corrected, steepling his fingers. "A sanctuary. A haven. It's a metaphor, made flesh and fur. We will become shepherds. Guardians. It will show the board the depth of my… care."
"You want to use live animals as a metaphor in a corporate power struggle."
"The most powerful metaphors are living ones!" he declared, rising to his feet. "A quarterly report is just numbers. But a snow leopard, thriving under my benevolent ownership? That is a statement. That is narrative."
"The narrative," I said slowly, my grip on reality feeling particularly slippery, "involves a grumpy penguin named Percival?"
"Percival is the key!" He began to pace. "He's been misunderstood. He's not grumpy; he's discerning. He has high standards, like me. His plumage is impeccable. When the board sees me connecting with Percival, they will see a man of profound empathy. A man who understands the lonely struggle of standing apart from the flock."
I had a sudden, vivid mental image of Alexander Wilde in a tuxedo, trying to explain his five-year growth strategy to a disinterested penguin. "Sir, the logistics… the care, the feeding, the… the smell…"
"Details, Miss Chen!" he waved a dismissive hand. "That is why I have you. And Sterling. Sterling is already drafting the proposal to rebrand it as the 'Wilde Foundation for Untamed Potential.' The branding synergy is impeccable."
He was serious. Catastrophically, phenomenally serious.
The following week was a blur of the most surreal professional experiences of my life. I found myself on a conference call with zoologists, discussing the dietary needs of capybaras while Alexander listened in, occasionally interjecting with questions like, "But what is the emotional temperature of their enclosure? Do they feel inspired?"
I reviewed financials that juxtaposed the cost of arctic-grade air conditioning for the snow leopards against the projected ROI of "reputational goodwill."
Sterling, impressively, handled it all with his usual glacial efficiency, negotiating the purchase with the grim determination of a man arranging a hostage swap. He only showed a flicker of emotion once, when confirming the acquisition of a lifetime supply of frozen herring for Percival. "The penguin's demands are… specific," he'd murmured, with a slight shudder.
The deal closed. Alexander Wilde owned a zoo.
The day we took official possession, he insisted on a site visit. He wore a pristine white safari jacket, looking less like a zookeeper and more like a movie star playing one. I trudged along behind him in sensible shoes, holding a tablet that now contained the medical records of a bactrian camel.
He stopped before Percival's habitat. The penguin stood rigid on a fake ice floe, staring at Alexander with an expression of pure, unadulterated contempt.
"You see, Miss Chen?" Alexander whispered, his voice filled with awe. "The nobility. The silent judgment. He's a king dethroned, waiting for a worthy successor to acknowledge his reign."
Percival let out a sound like a rusty horn and waddled away.
Undeterred, Alexander turned to the head zookeeper, a weary-looking woman named Brenda (not to be confused with Brenda from Marketing). "I want a live feed installed here. I need to monitor Percival's energy levels throughout the day. His mood will be a barometer for the company's creative health."
Brenda the Zookeeper looked at me. I gave a small, helpless shrug that said, Just go with it. The paycheck is worth it.
As we were leaving, Alexander paused by the capybaras, who were lounging in a muddy pond with an air of blissful indifference. He watched them for a long time, a strange, almost wistful look on his face.
"They have no board of directors, Miss Chen," he said softly. "No quarterly projections. They simply… are."
For a fleeting second, the performance dropped. I wasn't looking at the Drama King, the Titan of Industry. I was looking at a man buried under the weight of his own ridiculous narrative, envying a rodent for its simple life.
Then the moment passed. He straightened his safari jacket. "Right. We must schedule a press release. 'Wilde Enterprises Embraces its Wild Heart.' And see if we can get Percival a bowtie. Something to soften his image."
Back in the car, the silence was thick. My phone buzzed. A notification from my bank. Another obscenely large deposit. I looked out the window at the retreating zoo.
He had bought a zoo. For metaphorical reasons. And as the city skyline reasserted itself, I realized the most terrifying part wasn't the insanity of the act. It was the fact that I was no longer surprised by it. I was just… managing the logistics.