I returned to my office with the contraband sandwich clutched like evidence in a court drama. The very air inside the executive suite seemed relieved to expel me from public view as if the building itself feared I might fling another lawsuit at the wallpaper.
Behind closed doors, the hush felt different, almost intimate. Only the faint whir of the climate-control system and the pulse in my own ears broke the stillness. I set the sandwich on my pristine desk, convinced it was radiating disappointment, and loosened my tie another notch.
[Warning, Host. Consuming expired vending-machine poultry may result in both gastrointestinal vengeance and PR fallout. Imagine the headlines: "Alpha CEO Hospitalized by Sad Sandwich."]
"I'm not that desperate," I muttered, opening the wrapper anyway. The bread was soggy in a way bread shouldn't be outside of historic floods. I tossed the whole thing in the recycle bin and sanitized my hands for good measure.
[Wise decision. Your intestines have sent a thank-you memo.]
"Tell them they're welcome."
My monitor pinged an incoming message flagged priority from Sera Lin. Subject line: Demo Progress + Report (All requested materials attached).
It landed like an unexpected heartbeat. Just hours ago she'd stared at me as if I were a villain who'd stolen Christmas, and now… she willingly sent me her music. Not under duress. Not accompanied by barbed comments. Just the file I'd asked for delivered on schedule.
I hovered the cursor. Clicked.
First came the PDF report, crisp and efficient: milestones, marketing angles, proposed collaborations. Straightforward, insightful, annotated with color-coded tabs. But the audio file—that hummed on my screen like a live wire.
I cracked my knuckles, slipped my headphones on, and hit play.
A low thrum of synth lifted into strings fragile at first, then stronger, as if finding courage in real time. Layered under it all, Sera's voice emerged: smoky, deliberate, threaded with a hope that made my chest ache. The lyrics weren't sugar-sweet bounce; they were sharp, honest, an anthem scratched out of bruises. Something about standing in broken glass and still seeing the sunrise.
I closed my eyes.
For three minutes and forty-six seconds, the office walls dissolved. No lawsuits, no rumors, no entourage of vampire friends. Just a story told in chords and defiance. It ended not with bombast but with a quiet chord that hung there, unresolved an invitation to breathe.
I exhaled and realized my fingers were trembling on the desk.
"Well," I whispered, "damn."
[Technical assessment: 9.3 out of 10. Emotional resonance: undetermined my circuits do not experience goosebumps.]
"I do," I said, flexing my arms to quell the buzz under my skin. "She's good."
[She is exceptional. Potential to chart internationally with correct promotion.]
"And we will make sure it gets that promotion."
[Recommendation: fast-track green-light at tomorrow's A&R meeting, allocate additional budget for a live acoustic series, and push pre-release on social channels by end of quarter.]
I pinched the bridge of my nose, half amused, half humbled. "Look at you, the adorable algorithm plotting a marketing blitz."
[I prefer 'ruthlessly efficient.']
"Duly noted." I reread Sera's report the neatness, the insight, the absence of theatrics then glanced at my reflection in the dark window. "Do I congratulate her? Or will praise from me feel like a trap?"
[Positive feedback is generally effective, provided it lacks condescension or quid-pro-quo overtones.]
"I'm an alpha CEO with a notorious reputation. Everything about me screams quid-pro-quo."
[Try email. Keep it factual. Four sentences, no emojis.]
I allowed myself a weak smile. "One day you'll let me use a smiley face."
[Not today.]
Fine.
I opened a new message:
Sera,
I received the demo and reviewed your report. Both are excellent. I'm forwarding them to A&R for immediate inclusion on tomorrow's agenda. Let me know if you need additional resources.
-A.R.
I stared at the period after "resources" for a full ten seconds, fighting the urge to add something personal Your music moved me. But personal wasn't safe. Personal was the doorway to misinterpretation, to new rumors I'd just threatened to litigate. I pressed send.
Almost instantly, a system notification popped up: Message delivered. No read receipt. No glowing validation. Just digital silence.
I leaned back, letting the leather chair cradle the exhaustion I refused to display. The world still thought I was made of claws and contracts perhaps I was. Yet Sera's track had cracked something. A seam, maybe. Enough to let in a sliver of dawn.
I swiveled to the window, city lights glimmering like distant constellations of ambition and regret. "Why am I trying so hard, really?" I asked the darkness.
[Survival: primary objective. Secondary: redemption.]
"Redemption." I tasted the word. "Big gamble. People love a villain downfall not a slow-burn rehab."
[Public opinion is volatile, Host. But data suggests a successful pivot is possible if actions remain consistent over time.]
"Data never met gossip." I laughed quietly. "Still. I owe her that platform."
[You owe her basic decency, yes.]
"A low bar."
[Society's favorite limbo stick.]
I rubbed the back of my neck where the pheromone patch adhered like a reminder of biology. "If this is my second chance," I murmured, "I'm determined not to waste it."
[Then sleep. You have a board to charm at 8 a.m. And your digestive system still thanks you for tossing the turkey melt.]
"Point taken."
I shut the laptop, gathered my things and paused. Because beneath the faint hum of electronics, another sound vibrated: a soft, lilting hum. Live, not recorded.
I traced it to the corridor. Was someone still practicing this late? Curiosity propelled me beyond the office threshold.
The hall was mostly dark motion sensors powering lights only where feet triggered them. At the far end, near the lounge, Sera stood alone with closed eyes, earbuds in, one hand beating a tempo on her thigh, voice threading through the space in gentle syllables. She didn't notice me. I could have left should have, given the HR files thicker than legal briefs on "CEO etiquette."
But the song was hers, blooming in unguarded real time.
I leaned back against the wall at a respectful distance, letting the moment exist. No predatory stare, no harsh spotlight. Just two humans in after-hours quiet.
She finished on that same unresolved chord. Her lashes lifted, meeting my gaze. We froze caught between apology and accusation.
"I wasn't spying," I said softly.
She removed one earbud, brow arched. "Building security's a joke if an alpha can sneak up on me."
I shrugged. "I pay them to be invisible, not omnipotent."
Silence thickened. Somewhere down the stairwell a cleaning cart rattled.
"Your piece," I said, fumbling for decorum, "it's beautiful."
Something flickered in her eyes surprise? distrust? "Thank you."
"I " I want to help. Too needy. I tried again. "The board will love it."
She nodded, slipping the earbud back. "We'll see."
Then she turned and walked away, shoulders squared, spine proud. No scurrying like interns. No flirtation. Just an artist protecting her heart.
I let her go.
Back in my office, the system broke the hush.
[Host, your pulse spiked 18 %. I detect no immediate threat. Recommend breathing exercises.]
"It's not danger." I dropped into the chair, exhaling. "It's… possibility."
[Possibility is often terrifying.]
The clock read 9:47 p.m. Too late for sanity, too early to give up. I drafted talking points for the A&R presentation, requested a marketing budget adjustment, and scheduled a meeting with legal to refine the statement threatening rumor-mongers less guillotine, more scalpel, as Sera had said.
By the time I powered down, the sandwich in the bin had begun to wilt into an unrecognizable tragedy, but the knot in my chest had loosened. Minutely. Enough.
I flicked off the office lights. The hallway sensors winked on as I passed, little constellations lighting my path—proof that darkness could be coaxed to glow, given the right trigger