The silence Alexander left in his wake was heavier than usual. It wasn't the dramatic, pregnant pause before a soliloquy. It was the thick, clumsy silence of a man who had, for a fleeting moment, taken off his armor and wasn't sure how to put it back on. The "Competent CEO" had been a brief, unsettling intermission, and the main actor was having stage fright.
The next morning, I arrived at the office braced for… something. A return to full-blown theatrics? A retreat into icy formality? The pendulum could have swung either way.
I found him already at his desk, but he wasn't working. He was staring intently at Genevieve the plant, as if seeking botanical counsel. He didn't look up when I approached. The air was thick with unspoken words.
"Good morning, sir," I said, my voice carefully neutral.
He flinched, just slightly, as if pulled from a deep thought. "Miss Chen. Good morning." His voice was formal, clipped. The "Chloe" from the day before was gone, locked back in whatever vault held his unscripted self.
He cleared his throat. "The… ah… the notes for Brenda's campaign." He gestured to a thick, cream-colored folder on the corner of my desk. It was tied with a black silk ribbon. "I've prepared some… thoughts."
Some thoughts. The folder was the size of a small novel. I untied the ribbon. The first page was not a memo. It was a title page, calligraphed in his dramatic script:
"A Treatise on the Soul of the Machine: Re-contextualizing the 'Aura' Smart-Hub within the Broader Human Narrative"
I looked up. He was watching me, a strange mix of defiance and vulnerability in his eyes. The pendulum had swung. The Drama King was back, but he was… overcompensating. The 40-page treatise wasn't just a return to form; it was a fortress made of words.
"I see," I said, keeping my face impassive. "I'll ensure Brenda receives this… comprehensive feedback."
"See that you do," he said, turning back to his monitor, his shoulders stiff. "The current concept lacks… metaphysical weight."
The day proceeded with a stilted, excruciating politeness. He issued commands. I acknowledged them. There were no metaphors. No grand pronouncements. It was like working for a very efficient, very expensive robot that was desperately pretending it hadn't almost cried in front of me over cold lo mein.
The awkwardness peaked around 11 AM. I brought him his coffee, calibrated to 87.3 degrees. As I set it down, our fingers brushed. It was the slightest, most accidental contact.
We both froze.
A jolt, sharp and electric, passed between us. His eyes snapped to mine, wide with something like panic. He snatched his hand back as if burned.
"Thank you, Miss Chen," he said, his voice strangled. He turned his chair pointedly away from me, towards the window, presenting me with his rigid back.
I stood there for a second, the spot on my hand where his skin had touched feeling strangely warm. Oh, for God's sake, my inner monologue screamed. We shared a moment of human connection, not a communicable disease.
I retreated to my desk, my own heart doing a weird, fluttering thing. This was worse than the drama. This was… high school.
The resolution came from an unexpected source: the universe, which has a wicked sense of humor. The intercom buzzed—Sterling.
"Miss Chen, a delivery for Mr. Wilde. It requires… a personal touch."
I went to the reception area. There, sitting in the middle of the floor, was a large, wicker basket. Inside, blinking slowly, was a very fluffy, very white, very disgruntled-looking angora rabbit. A tag was attached to its collar. It read: "Lysander II. For Synergy."
I stared at it. The rabbit stared back, exuding an aura of pure, judgmental fluff. Of course, I thought. The "snow-ferret" saga continues.
I carried the basket into Alexander's office. He was still facing the window, a statue of repressed emotion.
"Sir," I said. "A delivery."
He turned. His eyes fell on the rabbit. The confusion on his face was momentarily so pure, so unguarded, that the awkwardness shattered.
"What in the name of all that is holy… is that?" he asked.
"It's from Alistair Finch," I said, reading the card that came with the basket. "The wood dealer. A 'housewarming gift' for the castle. He says it's for 'biome diversification' and that its 'profound stillness' will be an inspiration."
We both looked at the rabbit. The rabbit, with an air of immense superiority, began to meticulously wash its face.
The sheer, unmitigated absurdity of the situation was too much. A choked sound escaped me. I clapped a hand over my mouth, but it was too late. I was laughing.
Alexander stared at me. Then, a strange thing happened. A snort escaped him. Then a chuckle. Then he was laughing too, a real, deep, helpless laugh that filled the room and washed all the tension away.
"Biome diversification?" he wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. "Its profound stillness? That thing looks like it's planning a hostile takeover of the carrot patch!"
"He says it's a direct descendant of the rabbits that inspired the 'Crying' part of 'Crying Burmese Ebony,'" I managed, gasping for air.
That set us off again. We laughed until our sides ached, two adults brought to their knees by a judgmental bunny meant for a Scottish castle.
When the laughter finally subsided, we were left standing there, breathless and grinning at each other. The awkwardness was gone, vaporized by the rabbit.
"Well," Alexander said, his voice warm and normal again. "It seems the narrative has provided us with a… fluffy plot device."
"It has," I agreed. "What should we do with Lysander the Second?"
He looked at the rabbit, then at me, his eyes clear and calm. "We'll have Sterling arrange a suitable habitat. In the castle, of course. A rabbit deserves a proper stage." He smiled, a real, easy smile. "And Miss Chen? The coffee is perfect. Thank you."
The "Morning After" was over. The awkwardness had been resolved not by a conversation, but by a rabbit. The new resolve was simple: the drama was part of the deal. The glimpses of the man behind it were a gift. And sometimes, the best way to move forward was to simply laugh at the sheer, wonderful insanity of it all. The story continued, and for the first time, it felt like we were both truly, happily, in it together.