The fragile, coffee-scented camaraderie of our late-night data migration session evaporated by 10 AM the next morning. The man who had quietly optimized a server schedule was gone, replaced by the full, unfettered glory of Alexander Wilde, a man with a freshly replenished bank account and a pathological need to externalize his every passing fancy.
It began innocuously enough. He was scrolling through his tablet, supposedly reviewing the optimized migration plan, when he let out a low, appreciative whistle.
"Miss Chen," he said, without looking up. "Look at this. The sheer... presence of it."
I approached his desk, expecting to see a revolutionary data flowchart. Instead, I was looking at a real estate listing for a 15th-century Scottish castle. It was a magnificent, crumbling pile of grey stone, perched on a windswept cliff overlooking the North Sea. The photo was taken in moody, storm-lit black and white. It looked less like a property and more like a setting for a tragic gothic novel.
"It's... a castle, sir," I stated the obvious, my heart sinking.
"Not a castle, Miss Chen," he corrected, his eyes gleaming. "A stronghold. A fortress of solitude! Look at those battlements! They aren't just stone; they are a testament to centuries of defiance! They whisper of clan rivalries and unwavering principle!"
He swiped to the next image: a vast, cavernous great hall with a fireplace large enough to roast an entire cow. "And the interior! The soaring ceilings! The perfect acoustics for strategic contemplation! Imagine the echoes of a truly groundbreaking idea bouncing off that stone!"
"Sir," I began, choosing my words with the care of a bomb disposal expert, "while the... acoustics are undoubtedly impressive, is a remote Scottish castle a prudent investment for the company? The upkeep alone on a listed historical building—"
"Prudent?" He cut me off, waving a dismissive hand. "Prudence is the language of the timid! This isn't about investment in the vulgar, financial sense. This is about investing in our corporate soul! We are a digital enterprise, yes, but we are anchored in the physical world! We need a... a north star! A tangible symbol of our enduring legacy! A place where leaders can retreat to commune with the ghosts of innovators past!"
He was already clicking the "Contact Agent" button.
"Alexander," I said, using his first name as a last-ditch effort to inject sanity. "This is a multi-million-pound purchase. Shouldn't there be a feasibility study? A board review? A... a soil analysis?"
"The only analysis I require is an analysis of its narrative potential!" he declared. "And the narrative is... impeccable. It's called 'Cliffhaven.' The name alone! A haven on a cliff! A metaphor for our entire business model—finding security on the precipice of innovation!"
The rest of the day was a whirlwind of surrealism. Sterling, who had likely received a notification the moment Alexander clicked the link, materialized with a file already prepared. It contained the castle's full history, a preliminary budget for "essential modernizations" (which included installing fiber optic cable through three feet of medieval stone and "aura-enhancing" the dungeon), and a list of local Scottish zoning laws.
By 3 PM, Alexander was on a video call with a very confused, very excited estate agent named Fergus, who kept calling him "Laird Wilde." By 5 PM, after a negotiation that consisted of Alexander declaring the asking price "an insult to the castle's dignity" and offering ten percent more, the deal was done. Contingent on a survey, of course. Even Alexander had his limits.
He swiveled in his chair, a look of sublime triumph on his face. "It is done. Wilde Enterprises now has a soul."
I was numb. "Congratulations, sir. What... what will its primary function be?"
"Function? Its function is to be!" he exclaimed. "But initially, I envision executive retreats. Imagine a brainstorming session in the great hall, surrounded by tapestries! The pressure to innovate would be immense! One cannot be mediocre in the presence of such history!"
He paused, a new thought striking him. "And the grounds! The moat is dried up, but we could re-flood it. Stock it with... something imposing. Perhaps sturgeon. Or that penguin. Percival would lend a certain... incongruous majesty."
The image of a disgruntled Percival paddling in a Scottish moat was the final straw. I had to sit down.
Later, as I was mechanically adding "Castle Maintenance" as a new budget category, a new thought occurred to Alexander. He buzzed me on the intercom.
"Miss Chen, a thought. The west tower. It has a particular... resilience. The listing said it withstood a siege in 1645. The view is reportedly spectacular." He paused. "I think it would make an excellent... writing room. For you. For when we are in residence. The light, I'm told, is perfect for focused thought."
I froze, my hand hovering over the keyboard. He had bought a castle on a whim, a multi-million-pound monument to his own ego. And his first thought regarding its allocation of space was to give me a tower. A resilient one, with a spectacular view.
It was the most extravagant, unnecessary, and strangely personal gesture I had ever received. It wasn't a bonus. It was a claim. He wasn't just building a legacy for his company; he was building a world, and he was assigning me a permanent room in it.
"Thank you, sir," I managed to say, my voice faint. "A... a writing room would be... very nice."
"Good," he said, satisfaction evident in his tone. "It's settled."
I ended the call and stared blankly at my screen. My life now included a hypothetical writing room in a Scottish castle I had never seen, bought by a man who believed penguins were majestic moat-dwellers.
The worst part? The terrifying, undeniable part? A tiny, sleep-deprived, Stockholm-syndrome-riddled corner of my mind was already wondering what the light in that tower was really like. The madness wasn't just around me anymore. It was starting to feel like home.