True to his word, Alexander was waiting for me at 8:05 AM the next day. Not in person, of course, but his presence was felt via a terse message on my tablet the moment the new coffee thermometer was signed for by Sterling.
AWilde: The instrument has arrived. The calibration ritual awaits. My 9:30 depends on its vibrational alignment. Do not fail.
The "calibration ritual" was, thankfully, just me repeating yesterday's triple-point-of-water exercise. By 8:45 AM, I was presenting him with a perfect cup of 87.3°C coffee. He took a sip, closed his eyes, and was silent for a long moment.
"Acceptable," he pronounced, opening his eyes. "The soul is aligned. Now, we prepare for battle."
"Battle, sir?" I asked, my mind jumping to another corporate cold war, perhaps with the sandwich shop next door.
"The Board of Advisors meeting," he said, as if this were self-evident. "It's at 10 AM. A gathering of vultures in bespoke suits, perpetually disappointed that my 'unconventional methods' print money. They require... management. And management begins with presence."
He stood up from behind the shrouded desk and walked to the center of his vast office, striking a pose. His feet were planted wide, his shoulders were thrown back, his chin was raised at a defiant angle, and his hands were clenched into fists resting on his hips.
"This," he announced, his voice echoing slightly, "is the 'Titan of Industry' stance. It projects an aura of unassailable authority."
I blinked. He looked like a superhero who'd just been told his cape was at the dry cleaner's.
"Very... authoritative," I managed.
"But it lacks nuance," he mused, shifting his weight. He relaxed his shoulders slightly, unclenched one fist and brought his hand to his chin, as if in deep thought. "This is the 'Visionary Contemplating the Horizon' variant. More cerebral. Less... pelvic."
I had to bite the inside of my cheek. Pelvic?
"Which do you find more compelling, Miss Chen?" he asked, switching back to the "Titan" pose. "The raw, uncompromising power? Or the thoughtful, strategic genius?"
I felt like a theatre director giving notes to a deeply committed, if slightly unhinged, actor. "Perhaps... a blend?" I ventured. "The authority of the Titan, but with a hint of the Visionary's introspection? Just around the eyes?"
Alexander's face contorted as he attempted to simultaneously scowl with Titan-like intensity and gaze with Visionary-like profundity. One of his eyebrows twitched violently.
"Like this?" he grunted, the strain evident.
"A little less... constipated," I suggested gently. "Think 'I own the room' not 'I am fighting a stomach ache.'"
He relaxed his face, looking momentarily offended. "This is a science, Miss Chen. It requires practice." He proceeded to cycle through the poses for the next fifteen minutes, demanding feedback.
"Does this jawline say 'ruthless innovator' or 'petulant heir'?"
"Is the slight sneer inspiring fear or just indicating nasal congestion?"
"Should my gaze be piercing the soul of each individual board member, or should I let it drift vaguely, as if I am receiving transmissions from the future?"
I was running out of polite synonyms for "ridiculous." My professional facade was cracking. Just as he attempted a particularly complex maneuver involving a slight head tilt meant to convey "benevolent but unpredictable genius," his face froze.
A pained look crossed his features. "Ah," he said, his voice tight. "A cramp. In the zygomaticus major."
"The what?"
"The smiling muscle," he hissed, carefully massaging his cheek with his fingertips. "A hazard of the craft. The price of greatness."
At that moment, Sterling entered without a sound. He took in the scene: his boss massaging a facial muscle in the middle of the room, and me, his new assistant, standing by like a confused sports coach.
"The board members are beginning to arrive, sir," Sterling said, his expression utterly impassive. "Shall I show them to the conference room?"
"Yes, yes," Alexander waved a hand, still working the cramp out of his cheek. "Give me two minutes. I need to recenter my chi. The cramp has created a negative energy vortex in my left hemisphere."
"Of course, sir," Sterling said, and glided out.
Alexander took a few deep, meditative breaths. He shook out his hands and rolled his shoulders. The pained expression faded, replaced by a look of serene determination. He turned to me.
"Well, Miss Chen. The hour is upon us. Wish me luck."
"Good luck, Mr. Wilde," I said, and I almost meant it.
He strode towards the door, but paused with his hand on the knob. He didn't look at me, but his reflection was caught in the dark glass of the window. "Your feedback was... adequate."
And with that, he was gone, off to face the board, his posture a perfect, seamless blend of Titan and Visionary. No trace of the cramp remained.
I stood alone in the silent, orchid-filled office. I had just spent my morning coaching a billionaire on how to pose. I had critiqued his sneer and diagnosed his power stance. The sheer, unadulterated absurdity of it should have had me running for the hills.
But as I looked at the spot where he'd been standing, a strange feeling crept over me. It wasn't just amusement or secondhand embarrassment. It was a flicker of something else. He was utterly, completely, and certifiably insane. But it was a dedicated, all-consuming insanity. He genuinely believed that the angle of his chin could sway the fortunes of a multinational corporation.
And the terrifying part? After witnessing the "synergy aura" meeting, I was starting to wonder if he might be right. Maybe, in this bizarro world, confidence wasn't just confidence. Maybe it really was a tangible force, and Alexander Wilde was its master.
I shook my head, trying to dispel the thought. That way lay madness. My madness. I was just here for the paycheck.
But as I went to clear his perfect, now-cold cup of coffee, I realized I was genuinely curious to hear how the board meeting went.