The acquisition of the zoo, now officially the "Wilde Foundation for Untamed Potential," had an unexpected side effect. It shifted Alexander's metaphorical gaze inward. If he was the guardian of external wildness, then his internal domain—his office—required a corresponding level of curated, symbiotic life. The orchids and ferns, once deemed sufficient, were now, in his words, "lacking narrative ambition."
The crisis announced itself not with a bang, but with a sigh. A long, soulful exhalation that carried from his open doorway to my marble slab. I looked up from a spreadsheet tracking Percival the penguin's weekly herring consumption (a line item I never thought I'd see) to find Alexander standing before his wall of greenery, hands on his hips, radiating disappointment.
"They're adequate," he pronounced, his voice heavy with regret. "But adequacy is the death of greatness. They are… supporting characters. This environment requires a protagonist."
He turned to me, his eyes alight with a familiar, terrifying fervor. "Miss Chen. The ecosystem requires a centerpiece. A botanical hero."
And so began the Quest for the Perfect, Dramatically Lit Office Plant.
The initial brief was, as ever, a masterpiece of specificity. It wasn't enough for the plant to be large or rare. It had to have presence.
"It must have a silhouette that speaks of silent endurance," Alexander dictated, pacing before the windows. "Leaves that capture the light not merely to photosynthesize, but to comment upon it. Its form should suggest a story. Perhaps a tragic past. A struggle against the elements. I want a plant with a backstory, Miss Chen."
I started researching. I fell down rabbit holes of botanical rarity and absurd horticultural pricing. I presented him with options.
The Corpse Flower, famous for its immense, rotting-meat-scented bloom. "Too on-the-nose," he dismissed. "The tragedy is theatrical, not nuanced. Next."
A centuries-old, gnarled Japanese White Pine, a living sculpture of wind and time. "Too austere. It speaks only of patience. I need a plant that understands ambition."
A massive, cascading String of Pearls, its tendrils dripping like green jewels. "Whimsical. Not heroic."
After a week of rejections, I was ready to suggest a very ambitious plastic ficus. But then I found it. In the digital portfolio of a boutique conservatory in Singapore that catered to a clientele for whom money was no object and taste was… specific. It was a Monstera obliqua, but not like any I had ever seen. Dubbed the "Fenestrated Phantom," its leaves were more hole than leaf, a delicate, skeletal lacework. It was suspended in a self-contained, climate-controlled glass terrarium, lit from within by programmable LEDs that could simulate everything from a misty dawn to a stormy twilight. The description read: "A study in resilience and transparency. Thrives in controlled, high-humidity environments. A paradox of fragility and strength."
It was the most high-maintenance, pretentious thing I had ever seen. It was perfect.
Alexander took one look at the photo and fell in love. "Yes," he breathed, his voice full of reverence. "The Fenestrated Phantom. It doesn't hide its scars; it makes them its art. The lighting console! We can sync its daily cycle to my creative rhythm! Dawn illumination during strategic planning! A fiery sunset glow during investor calls! It's… symbiotic."
The price was enough to fund a small nation's actual environmental conservation efforts. He didn't blink.
The plant arrived two weeks later, a crate within a crate, accompanied by a nervous Swiss botanist named Klaus who spoke in hushed, reverent tones about pH levels and lumens. The installation was an event. Klaus and Sterling, looking like a pair of bomb disposal experts, carefully uncrated the terrarium and placed it on a custom-designed pedestal opposite Alexander's desk, where it would catch the afternoon light.
Alexander watched the entire process, silent and rapt. When it was done, and the internal LEDs were set to a soft "mid-morning contemplative" glow, he approached it slowly, as if approaching a holy relic.
"It's name is Genevieve," he announced.
Of course it was.
For a few days, all was well. Alexander would hold meetings while gazing at Genevieve, citing her "quiet resilience" as a model for corporate growth. Then, crisis. A single, lower leaf began to yellow. Not dramatically, just a faint, sickly tinge at the very tip.
To anyone else, it would be a minor issue. To Alexander, it was a portent of doom.
"It's the light," he declared, after a frantic video call with Klaus. "The angle is wrong. The setting is too harsh. It's rejecting the narrative!"
And so began the second, more desperate phase of the quest: not to find the plant, but to save it. This meant adjusting the lighting. Constantly.
"Miss Chen, tilt the spotlight three degrees to the west. Genevieve requires a more forgiving exposure."
"Miss Chen, Klaus says the spectral wavelength is incorrect. We need to adjust the RGB values to better emulate the dappled shade of a Singaporean undercanopy. I need you to model the light diffraction."
I spent an entire afternoon on a video call with Klaus, using a colorimeter app on my phone, while Alexander directed me like a cinematographer on a movie set.
"A little more blue. No, too cold. She's not melancholic, she's pensive!"
The yellow tip persisted.
I was on the verge of suggesting we just… let the leaf die, as leaves sometimes do, when I saw him. It was late. I'd returned to the office for a forgotten charger. The floor was dark and silent, lit only by the emergency exits and the soft, ghostly glow of Genevieve's terrarium.
Alexander was there, standing before the plant. But the theatricality was gone. His shoulders were slumped. He reached out and very gently touched the glass of the terrarium, his reflection superimposed on the delicate leaves.
"Don't leave," he whispered, his voice raw and utterly stripped of performance. "Please."
I backed away silently, my heart thudding strangely in my chest. The next morning, I arrived early. Before I started the coffee calibration, I went to the plant. I looked at the yellow leaf. Then I did something utterly unsanctioned. I opened the terrarium's service panel—the one Klaus had shown us for emergencies—and I snapped the leaf off at the stem. I pocketed the evidence.
When Alexander arrived, I was at my desk, the picture of professional composure.
He walked straight to Genevieve, as he always did. He stopped. He peered. The yellow was gone. Only healthy, lacy green remained.
He looked at the plant. Then he looked at me. I kept my eyes on my screen, feigning deep concentration on Percival's herring metrics.
He didn't say a word. But when he walked into his office, he was humming.
The quest was over. The hero, Genevieve, had triumphed. And I, the loyal assistant, had secretly performed a leaf-ectomy to preserve the narrative. It was the most logical, insane thing I had ever done. And for the first time, it didn't feel like humoring a madman. It felt like caring for one.