The "Cliffhaven Crisis," as I'd come to think of the tax saga, had been resolved in the only way a problem in Alexander Wilde's world could be: through a combination of Sterling's legal sorcery, Steve's creative accounting, and Alexander's absolute refusal to accept reality. The castle was now officially a "Strategic Ideation Sanctuary," a classification so nebulous it made the tax authorities' heads spin so hard they simply gave up and assigned it its own unique, and likely deductible, code.
The victory, however, left me feeling hollow. It was a Friday evening. The office was silent, bathed in the deep blue glow of the city lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Alexander had left an hour earlier, off to "commune with the architectural spirits" of his new Scottish stronghold via a live feed he'd had installed that afternoon. I was alone, the silence pressing in on me, and for the first time, the absurdity of my life didn't feel amusing. It felt… heavy.
I found myself opening a new browser tab. I typed: "Therapist for corporate Stockholm syndrome." I deleted it. I typed: "How to know if your billionaire boss is a cult leader." I deleted that too. Finally, I just typed: "Therapist. Manhattan."
I wasn't going to go, of course. My health insurance, a platinum-plated policy that probably covered aura-cleansing, was through the company. He would find out. He'd consider it a fascinating data point on "employee morale optimization" and would want to sit in on the sessions to "refine the narrative of my workplace satisfaction."
But I needed to talk to someone. So, in the profound silence of the $50-million-view office, I imagined the session I would never have.
IMAGINED SESSION LOG - DR. ARABELLA SPRINGS, PH.D.
Dr. Springs: (A woman with kind eyes, a sensible cardigan, and a notepad) So, Chloe. What brings you here today?
Me: I think my boss is building a personality cult and I'm his chief acolyte.
Dr. Springs: I see. Can you elaborate?
Me: Well, this week he bought a Scottish castle because he said the company needed a "tangible soul." He's planning to flood the moat and stock it with a penguin. For "incongruous majesty."
Dr. Springs: (Scribbles on notepad) And how does that make you feel?
Me: Tired. Also, slightly concerned that I'm starting to see the aesthetic merit of a penguin in a moat.
Dr. Springs: Tell me about your boss. What is he like?
Me: He's… a lot. He practices villainous laughs in the bathroom. He thinks "synergy" is a visible aura. He almost fired me once for using the wrong font. He refers to his ex-girlfriend as a "professional villainess." Which, to be fair, she is.
Dr. Springs: And your role in this dynamic is what?
Me: I'm the translator. The reality anchor. When he starts monologuing about the "tragic-heroic resonance" of a desk, I'm the one who finds the actual wood. When he declares a corporate cold war on a coffee shop, I'm the one who brokers the peace treaty using artisanal air filters. I make the madness… operational.
Dr. Springs: It sounds like you enable his behavior.
Me: I'm not an enabler! I'm a… a co-narrator. A dramaturge for a one-man show that never ends. Last week, I prevented an international incident by convincing him that a power stance with a slight head tilt was more "collaboratively sovereign" than a full-on "Titan of Industry" pose. I saved a multi-million-dollar deal with a well-timed head tilt!
Dr. Springs: (Nods slowly) And the compensation for this… dramaturgy?
Me: Obscene. My student loans are a distant, smoldering crater. I own… a very nice pen.
Dr. Springs: But?
Me: But I dream in PowerPoint. I judge the emotional weight of fonts in my sleep. I caught myself the other day describing a delayed subway as "lacking narrative momentum." I'm losing my mind, Doctor. And the worst part is, I think I might be… good at it.
Dr. Springs: Good at losing your mind?
Me: Good at his world. I can spot a metaphorical loophole faster than a real one. I know the precise cadence of a statement that will make him feel heard but also steer him toward a sane decision. It's like I have a PhD in Alexander Wilde Studies. And the field work is destroying my soul.
Dr. Springs: What would happen if you left?
Me: (A long pause) The penguin would be miserable. The castle's west tower would sit empty. And he'd… he'd probably hire some perfectly competent, normal person who would last a week before quitting and writing a tell-all memoir. And it would be a terrible memoir. They wouldn't get the nuances. They'd miss the… the glimpses.
Dr. Springs: The glimpses?
Me: Of the man behind the monologues. The one who looks genuinely hurt when you use his personal stationery. The one who, when the servers crashed, didn't give a speech. He just… fixed them. Competently. The one who gave me a nap on a cashmere blanket because he saw I was tired, not because it was "strategic recalibration." They're just glimpses. But they're real.
Dr. Springs: So, you stay for the glimpses.
Me: I stay for the glimpses. And the money. Definitely the money. But the glimpses are… complicating.
Dr. Springs: It sounds like you're describing a relationship, Chloe. Not just a job.
Me: (Stands up abruptly) Okay, that's our time. I have to go. I need to source a historically accurate yet comfortable tartan throw for a 15th-century great hall.
Dr. Springs: Of course. We'll pick this up next week. Think about what you're really getting from these… glimpses.
I closed the browser tab. The imaginary session was over. The office was still silent.
Dr. Springs was right, of course. It wasn't a job. It was a relationship with a human hurricane. I was the designated meteorologist, charting its path, admiring its terrible beauty, and occasionally steering it away from populated areas.
I packed my bag, my movements slow. As I passed his office, I saw the live feed from Cliffhaven on his monitor. It was just a shaky, moonlit image of a dark, empty great hall. But he was probably looking at it right now, from his penthouse, seeing ghosts of innovators past where I saw just dust and shadows.
He was insane. And I was his translator, his keeper, his frustrated and fascinated anchor.
I needed the therapy session I would never get. But as I stepped out into the sane, grubby reality of the city night, a terrifying thought occurred to me: what if I didn't need a therapist to help me leave?
What if I needed one to help me come to terms with the fact that I didn't want to?