The storm had changed things. The memory of those hours in the lantern-lit dark, of Alexander's unguarded apology, hung between us like a fragile truce. The office felt different. The air was clearer, the silence less charged with impending drama. For three days, we operated with a quiet, professional efficiency that was almost… normal. He dictated emails; I transcribed them. He reviewed contracts; I compiled the data. It was unsettling.
I should have known it was the calm before the storm. Alexander Wilde could not abide normalcy for long. Normalcy, to him, was a vacuum, and nature abhors a vacuum.
The catalyst was minor. A news alert flashed on my screen about a string of corporate espionage cases downtown. A rival tech firm had their servers hacked, their prototypes stolen. It was the kind of story that would make any CEO nervous. It made Alexander Wilde existential.
He read the article, his face growing pale. He didn't see a security breach; he saw a narrative threat. A violation of the sanctity of the corporate "story."
"This is an outrage," he whispered, his voice trembling with a new, genuine fear. "The sanctity of the creative process… defiled. The intellectual soul of an enterprise… plundered."
"Sir, it's terrible, but our cybersecurity is state-of-the-art. Sterling vets everything."
"Cybersecurity is a digital moat, Miss Chen!" he cried, standing up. "It protects the data, the ones and zeros! But it does not protect the idea! The spark! The… the aura of innovation that permeates this very room!" He gestured wildly around the office. "What if they come for us? Not for our files, but for our… our creative energy?"
"Sir, I don't think intellectual property thieves are interested in harvesting our… aura."
"You don't understand!" he insisted, his eyes wide with a kind of visionary paranoia. "We are not just a company; we are a font of pure, narrative potential! We are a target! And you…" He stopped, his gaze locking on me with terrifying intensity. "You are the keeper of the flame. The guardian of the narrative. You are… vulnerable."
The next morning, I arrived to find two large, grim-faced men in impeccably tailored black suits standing on either side of my floating marble slab. They looked like they'd been carved from granite and anger.
"Miss Chen," the one on the left said, his voice a low rumble. "I'm Agent Sterling. This is Agent Sterling. No relation."
I blinked. "There are two Sterlings?"
"The original Sterling glided over, his expression, as always, unreadable. "Miss Chen. Allow me to introduce the new security detail. Part of the 'For Your Safety' protocol, initiated by Mr. Wilde."
"The… what protocol?"
"The FYSP," Alexander announced, emerging from his office. He looked grimly satisfied. "A comprehensive, multi-layered security and wellness initiative designed to ensure your personal safety and, by extension, the integrity of our corporate intellectual ecosystem."
He proceeded to outline the protocol. It was, of course, insane.
Layer 1: The Sentinels. The two Sterlings (codenamed 'North' and 'South') were my personal shadows. They would escort me to and from the building, remain stationed outside the office, and perform "discreet perimeter sweeps" during my lunch hour. South Sterling offered to frisk my salad.
Layer 2: The Secure Conveyance. My morning coffee was no longer a simple ritual. It was now a "biometrically secured procurement." A Sterling would accompany me to the hydration alcove, scan the coffee beans for "auditory anomalies" (a concept Alexander refused to explain), and use a handheld spectrometer to verify the water purity before I was allowed to operate the machine.
Layer 3: The Aura Shielding. This was the pinnacle of the insanity. Alexander had consulted a "vibrational security expert" (a woman named Luna who smelled strongly of patchouli) who determined my personal energy field was a "high-value target." I was issued a small, black tourmaline crystal to wear at all times. "It deflects negative intentions," Alexander explained solemnly. South Sterling nodded in agreement.
Layer 4: The Panic Button. Tucked discreetly into my pocket was a device that, when pressed, would not only alert the Sterlings but also release a "high-frequency sonic deterrent" and a cloud of "non-toxic, but deeply disorienting, iridescent glitter." Alexander called it the "Glitter Glitch."
I was a prisoner in a gilded, paranoid cage. I couldn't go to the bathroom without North Sterling doing a "threat assessment" of the corridor. Trying to have a normal conversation with Leo from R&D was impossible with two human monoliths glaring at him.
The final straw came when I tried to video call Steve from Accounting. South Sterling leaned into the frame. "Miss Chen, I must advise against unsecured visual data transmission. The accountant's background could be digitally manipulated for nefarious purposes."
Steve, on screen, stared for a second, then said, "Tell Alex the castle's moat-stocking invoice is pending. And that he's lost his damn mind."
After a week, I snapped. I marched into Alexander's office, the two Sterlings attempting to follow. "Wait outside," I commanded. To my shock, they did.
Alexander looked up from a blueprint for a panic room he wanted to install inside the panic room. "Miss Chen. Is the tourmaline calibrated?"
"Alexander," I said, dropping the 'sir'. "This has to stop."
He looked genuinely confused. "Stop? The protocol is for your protection. The world is a dangerous, chaotic place. I am imposing order. I am building a narrative of safety."
"You're building a prison!" I countered. "I can't think! I can't breathe! Leo from R&D is afraid to make eye contact! You've assigned me human guard dogs and a magic rock!"
"It's not a magic rock, it's crystallized carbon arranged in a hexagonal—"
"I don't care!" I took a deep breath, trying to channel the clarity of the storm-bound night. "You are trying to protect the idea of me. The 'keeper of the narrative.' But you're smothering the person. The person who argued with you about the font. The person who found the loophole in the Zenith deal. You can't secure that in a protocol. It thrives on… on the chaos you're so afraid of."
He was silent, my words hanging in the air. The Drama King was gone, replaced by a man who looked… scared. Not of corporate spies, but of something else. Of losing the one person who could navigate his chaos.
"The storm…" he began softly. "When the power went out… I realized how…" He struggled for the word. "…contingent it all is. This world I've built. It's all held together by… you."
It was the most vulnerable thing he had ever said.
"The protocol… stays," he said finally, his voice firm but softer. "But… it will be revised. The Sterlings will maintain a… respectful distance. Twenty feet. The glitter… can be optional."
It was a compromise. A ridiculous, infinitesimal, but monumental compromise. The Drama King had negotiated.
"Thank you," I said.
I turned to leave, the tourmaline feeling a little less stupid in my pocket.
"And Miss Chen?" he added. "The panic button also orders a pizza from that place you like. As a… non-emergency function."
I walked out of his office, a smile touching my lips. The "For Your Safety" protocol was still the most insane thing I'd ever encountered. But it wasn't just about security anymore. It was his bizarre, broken, extravagant way of saying he cared. And for now, in the utterly ridiculous world of Alexander Wilde, that was enough.