The confessions over cold lo mein had left a new, fragile transparency in the office. The air felt clearer, the space between us charged not with unspoken performance, but with a quiet, mutual acknowledgment. We had seen the cracks in each other's armor, and instead of breaking, the structure felt stronger.
A week passed in a state of productive calm. Alexander's theatrics were still present, but they felt softer now, less like a fortress wall and more like a favorite, if flamboyant, coat he wore out of habit. He'd make a grand pronouncement about the "heroic journey of the quarterly report," then catch my eye and give a slight, almost imperceptible shrug, as if to say, I know, but it's a fun coat to wear.
Then, on a rainy Thursday afternoon, it happened. The sky was the color of bruised pewter, and a steady, soothing drumbeat of rain fell against the glass wall. Alexander was standing before it, not pacing, but simply watching the city blur into a watercolor painting. The usual dramatic tension was absent from his posture. He just looked… pensive.
"Did I ever tell you," he began, his voice so quiet it was almost swallowed by the rain, "about the first play I was ever in?"
I looked up from my spreadsheet. This was new. He'd referenced Shakespeare, epic poetry, classic cinema, but never his own past. "No, sir," I said gently. "You haven't."
He didn't turn around. "I was seven. It was the annual family gala. A truly dreadful affair—stiff, silent, a mausoleum with canapés." His voice was flat, devoid of its usual theatrical flair. "My parents were… preoccupied. With the stock market, with their guests, with each other. I was… scenery."
He paused, watching a raindrop trace a path down the glass. "The entertainment was a string quartet. Dreadfully boring. I decided the event needed… elevation. A narrative."
A faint smile touched my lips. "Of course you did."
"I snuck upstairs to the library. I found a book of Greek myths. I chose the story of Icarus. It seemed appropriately… dramatic." He finally turned, his face illuminated by the grey light. There was no pride in his expression, only a distant, childlike earnestness. "I fashioned wings from a wire coat hanger and parchment paper from the printer. I climbed onto the balcony overlooking the ballroom."
"Oh, no," I breathed, a horrifying, hilarious image forming in my mind.
"Oh, yes," he said, a ghost of a smile flickering. "I stood there, in my little suit, and I announced to the entire party—all the serious, important people—that I was going to 'touch the sun.' I recited a speech I'd made up on the spot about the tragedy of ambition. It was terrible iambic pentameter."
"What did they do?" I asked, utterly captivated.
"At first, nothing. They were stunned into silence. Then my father looked up. He didn't look amused, or worried. He looked… annoyed. Like I was a dog barking during a symphony. My mother whispered something to a guest and laughed behind her hand."
My heart ached for the little boy on the balcony.
"But I was committed to the narrative," he continued, his voice gaining a sliver of its old resonance. "So I jumped."
"Alexander!"
"Not a real jump! A theatrical leap! Onto a conveniently placed divan below. It was a calculated risk. The wings, of course, were't a total success. One of the wire hooks caught on the balcony railing. I was left dangling, suspended over the ballroom, a failed Icarus in short pants, swinging gently back and forth."
I couldn't help it. I let out a choked laugh, quickly covering my mouth. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be," he said, and now his smile was real, if bittersweet. "Because something remarkable happened. As I dangled there, humiliated, one of the guests—an old aunt, a black sheep who drank too much sherry—started to clap. Then another. And another. Suddenly, the entire stuffy, silent ballroom was applauding. Not because it was good. But because it was the most interesting thing that had happened all night."
He walked away from the window and sat on the edge of his desk, facing me. The rain provided a soft soundtrack to his story.
"They cut me down. My father was furious. My mother was mortified. I was sent to my room without supper. But I didn't care." His eyes met mine, and they were clear, free of pretense. "In that moment, suspended in mid-air, I had their attention. Not as a well-behaved accessory, but as the main event. I had created a story. A flawed, ridiculous, unforgettable story. And for one glorious minute, I was the king of the narrative."
He let the silence hang, the truth of it settling in the room.
"That's when I learned it," he said softly. "The power of a grand gesture. No matter how absurd. If the world is going to ignore you, you must make yourself impossible to ignore. If you can't be loved for who you are, you must become a character too large to be dismissed."
It all clicked into place. The power stances, the Shakespearean insults, the castle, the penguin, the desperate, relentless need to turn every moment into an epic. It wasn't just ego. It was the survival strategy of a lonely, brilliant little boy who had learned that the only way to be seen was to set himself on fire, even if it was just with parchment wings.
"Icarus," I murmured.
He gave a wry, self-deprecating smile. "Forever trying to touch the sun. And forever terrified of the fall."
We sat in silence for a long moment, the rain the only sound.
"Thank you," I said finally. "For telling me."
He nodded, looking down at his hands. "The narrative… it's a shield, Chloe. A very loud, very gaudy shield. But sometimes…" He looked up at me, and the vulnerability in his gaze was breathtaking. "Sometimes, it's exhausting to carry."
"You don't always have to carry it," I said softly. "Not with me."
He held my gaze, and the air in the room shifted. The last vestiges of the performance fell away. The CEO, the Titan, the Drama King was gone. In his place was just Alexander. The man who had once jumped off a balcony to get his parents' attention.
"I know," he whispered.
The moment stretched, fragile and profound. Then, the intercom on his desk buzzed, shattering the silence. Sterling's calm voice filled the room. "Mr. Wilde, your call with the Zurich board is in five minutes."
The spell was broken. Alexander straightened up, the mask of the CEO settling back into place, but it was different now. I had seen the face underneath. He gave me a small, private smile.
"Back to the narrative, Miss Chen," he said, his voice regaining its familiar command, but with a new warmth behind it.
"Of course, sir," I said, smiling back.
As he walked into his office to take the call, I turned back to my spreadsheet. The numbers blurred before my eyes. He had given me the key. The childhood story that explained everything. The man wasn't a lunatic. He was a playwright, a director, and the lead actor in a lifelong production designed to ensure he would never, ever be just scenery again.
And I, it seemed, had been promoted from stagehand to the sole member of the audience he trusted to see behind the curtain. It was the most terrifying and precious gift I had ever received.