The rescue of Lysander the "snow-ferret" from the simple, ham-scented comforts of Steve's cardigan had left Alexander in a state of existential funk. His prized symbol of untamed purity had actively chosen accounting-department beige over his gilded cage. For days, the office was shrouded in a contemplative silence, broken only by the sound of Alexander sighing dramatically at Genevieve the plant, as if asking it where he'd gone wrong.
The funk was shattered by a gilded invitation. The annual "Innovation & Influence" gala, the most pretentious event on the city's social calendar, was approaching. For Alexander, this wasn't a party. It was a stage. And he was determined to make his comeback.
"This is not a gala, Miss Chen," he announced, slapping the thick, embossed invitation onto my desk. "It is a battlefield. A theater of war where fortunes are made and broken not in boardrooms, but over canapés and champagne flutes. Our competitors will be there. The press will be there. Sebastian Thorn will be there, sharpening his verbal daggers."
I picked up the invitation. "It says there's a chocolate fountain."
"Chocolate is a weapon of mass distraction!" he declared. "But we will not be distracted. We will be... magnificent. And to be magnificent, we require a strategy. We must craft our narrative, hone our banter, and most importantly, we must socialize without causing a diplomatic incident."
I blinked. "A diplomatic incident, sir?"
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Last year, I told the French ambassador that his country's economic policy had the 'structural integrity of a damp croissant.'"
I winced. "Ah."
"And the year before that, I informed a tech journalist that her publication's website had the 'aesthetic appeal of a spreadsheet error.'" He shuddered at the memory. "My metaphors, when weaponized, are too potent for casual conversation. I need a... filter. A translator. You."
"Me?"
"You, Miss Chen. You possess a grounding in the common tongue. You will be my social liaison. My ambassador to the world of mundane small talk. Your task is to ensure I navigate the evening without declaring metaphorical bankruptcy on anyone's... anything."
And so began "Gala Prep," a boot camp for basic human interaction. Our sessions took place in his office, after hours, with Sterling acting as a stoic, unimpressed audience member.
"Scenario," Alexander began, striking a pose near the chocolate fountain (a replica he'd had installed for "atmospheric immersion"). "Sebastian Thorn approaches. He makes a snide remark about our quarterly earnings. How do I respond?"
I thought of Steve from Accounting. "You could say, 'The numbers speak for themselves, Sebastian. We're focusing on long-term growth.'"
Alexander looked horrified. "The numbers speak for themselves? That's what he would say! It's pedestrian! It lacks poetry! It has no... teeth!" He pondered for a moment. "What about... 'A single quarter is but a raindrop in the storm of progress we are unleashing, Sebastian. Try not to drown in the puddles.'"
"Too threatening," I said. "It makes you sound like a Bond villain. Just smile and say, 'We're happy with our trajectory.'"
"Trajectory," he repeated, tasting the word. "It's... acceptable. It has a scientific, projectile-like quality. I can work with trajectory." He practiced a smile. It looked more like a grimace. "We are happy with our... trajectory." He said it as if announcing a hostile takeover.
"Less teeth, sir. Softer."
The training extended to metaphors. I had to pre-approve all his figurative language.
"Can I compare a rival's new product to 'a bird trying to fly with only one wing'?"
"Too sad. Maybe just say it's 'still in early stages.'"
"What about telling the mayor that the city's infrastructure has 'the rustic charm of a crumbling sandcastle'?"
"Absolutely not."
The night of the gala arrived. Alexander was a vision in a tailored tuxedo, a dramatic black cape (because of course), and an air of barely-contained theatricality. I was in a simple black dress, my role clearly defined: damage control.
For the first hour, it worked. He was on his best behavior. He greeted people with a stiff "Good evening." He discussed "market trajectories." He even complimented a woman on her necklace without comparing it to a "cluster of frozen tears." I began to relax.
Then, we found ourselves cornered by none other than Sebastian Thorn, a man with the charisma of a filing cabinet and the smile of a shark.
"Wilde," Thorn sneered, swirling his whiskey. "I see you brought your... shadow." He nodded dismissively at me. "Hiding behind your assistant now? Afraid of what you might say?"
Alexander's smile tightened. I saw the warning signs—the flaring nostrils, the slight lift of the chin. The "bankrupt weather" speech was loading.
I acted fast. I stepped forward slightly, intercepting Thorn's gaze. "Mr. Thorn," I said with a sweet smile. "We were just admiring the floral arrangements. Don't they remind you of a well-balanced portfolio? Diverse, vibrant, and each element contributing to the overall strength."
Thorn blinked, thrown by the bizarre analogy. Alexander, seizing the opportunity, jumped in.
"Precisely!" he boomed, a genuine, brilliant smile spreading across his face. "A portfolio in bloom! What a wonderfully grounded observation, Miss Chen." He turned to Thorn, his confidence restored. "You see, Sebastian? That's the kind of innovative thinking you're up against. We see opportunity everywhere. Even in the peonies."
He clapped Thorn on the shoulder, a gesture of condescending bonhomie so perfect it was chilling. Then, he offered me his arm. "Shall we? I believe the penguin canapes are calling. A delightful metaphor for survival in a harsh climate, don't you think?"
As he led me away, he leaned down, his voice a low, thrilled whisper in my ear. "Peonies! A portfolio in bloom! It was absurd, but it was socially acceptable absurdity! You brilliant, brilliant woman. You didn't just stop me from sinking the ship; you provided a better, more interesting life raft."
We spent the rest of the evening as a team. I would drop a mundane, sensible observation, and Alexander would spin it into a piece of theatrical, yet strangely captivating, commentary. He was no longer a loose cannon; he was a poet with a safety net. My net.
At the end of the night, as we waited for his car, he stood silently under the stars, the cape billowing slightly in the breeze. The performance was over.
"Miss Chen," he said, not looking at me. "Tonight was... adequate."
I hid a smile. "Thank you, sir."
"No," he said, finally turning to me. His dramatic persona was gone, replaced by a look of quiet, genuine gratitude. "Thank you."
In that moment, I wasn't just his assistant, or his translator. I was his partner in crime. And as his driver pulled up, I realized the most surprising thing of all: I'd had fun. The battlefield had become a dance floor, and for the first time, we were dancing in step.