Kevin had made a discovery.
This was, according to Sophie, both exciting and terrifying. "Kevin's discoveries are always important," she explained as we piled back into the Porsche, "but they're also never normal. Last time he 'discovered' something, it was that your ex-boyfriend had been embezzling funds through a shell company in the Cayman Islands."
"What happened to him?"
"Legal consequences. Also social consequences. I may have sent his photo to every major business publication with a very detailed press release."
"You did that?"
"No, you did that. I just wrote the press release. You signed it."
Past me was starting to sound less like a monster and more like a woman I wanted to have coffee with.
We reconvened at the penthouse. Sophie commandeered the living room television—apparently it was a screen, because of course it was—and Kevin plugged his laptop into it while Lucas stood near the window with the expression of a man who had accepted his fate but refused to enjoy it.
"Okay," Kevin said, pulling up a series of emails on the massive screen. "I was going through Ms. Chen's archived correspondence from the past three years. Filtering for keywords related to personal items, sentimental objects, journals, diaries—"
"You hacked into her email?" Lucas asked.
"I have administrative access. It's my job."
"It's your job to manage the server infrastructure, not to read her personal correspondence."
"Sophie said it was an emergency."
"Sophie says everything is an emergency."
"This one actually was," Kevin said quietly. He clicked on an email from two years ago and expanded it on the screen.
---
From: Vivian Chen
To: Sophie Chen
Subject: The notebook
Sophie,
I can't find it. The red notebook. The one I've kept since college. I've looked everywhere—the penthouse, the office, the safety deposit box. It's gone.
I know you're going to tell me it's just a notebook. But it's not. Everything is in there. Every idea, every memory, every version of myself I was too afraid to be out loud.
If I lose that notebook, I lose the only record I have of who I was before I became... this.
Help me find it.
— V
---
The room was very quiet.
Sophie wasn't smiling anymore. Kevin was staring at his laptop screen like it might apologize to him. Even Lucas had gone completely still near the window, his ears drained of all their usual color.
"What happened?" I asked. "Did she find it?"
"We found it," Sophie said quietly. "Three weeks later. It had fallen behind the filing cabinet in your office. We celebrated. You bought me dinner at that ridiculous French restaurant you love. End of story." She paused. "Except not really, because you emailed me again a month ago."
"Show her," Kevin said.
Another email appeared on the screen.
---
From: Vivian Chen
To: Sophie Chen
Subject: The notebook (again)
I hid it.
I know you're going to be annoyed. We spent three weeks looking for it and I'm the one who hid it. But I couldn't keep it in the office anymore. Every time I read it, I remembered who I used to be, and the gap between that person and who I am now was getting too big.
So I hid it somewhere safe. Somewhere only I would think to look. If something happens to me—and I'm not saying something will, but lately I've been feeling... watched. Paranoid, probably. But if something happens, find the notebook. It has everything you need to understand.
The hiding place is somewhere the old me would never look. But the new me—the one I'm trying to become—she would find it in a heartbeat.
I love you. Don't tell anyone about this email.
— V
---
"What does she mean, 'feeling watched'?" I asked.
Lucas stepped forward. "Ms. Chen—Vivian—had been receiving anonymous threats for approximately six weeks before the accident. Phone calls with no voice on the other end. A letter delivered to her office with no return address. She told me not to worry about it."
"And you listened?"
His jaw tightened. "I should not have."
"No," Sophie said. "You shouldn't have. But Vivian was very good at telling people not to worry and even better at making them believe it." She turned to me. "The point is—the notebook is hidden. In this penthouse. Somewhere only YOU would think to look. The new you."
I stared at the screen. At my own words, written by a version of me who had known something was coming. Who had hidden the most important record of her life because she was afraid someone might take it.
Or her.
"The hiding place is somewhere the old me would never look," I repeated. "But the new me would find it."
"What does that mean?" Kevin asked.
I looked around the penthouse. At the sterile white walls and the minimalist furniture and the smart home system that didn't respond to my voice. At the ficus on the windowsill—plastic, fake, and apparently named Gerald.
The old Vivian wouldn't have looked somewhere ridiculous. Somewhere sentimental. Somewhere that didn't make logical sense.
I walked over to the ficus.
"What are you doing?" Sophie asked.
"Something the old me would never do." I reached into the pot, pushing aside the fake moss and the plastic leaves, and my fingers brushed against something solid.
I pulled out a small, worn, red leather notebook.
Silence.
"HOLY—" Sophie started.
"It was in the ficus," Kevin said. "The entire time. It was in Gerald."
"The old Vivian would never have checked a fake plant for a hidden notebook because the old Vivian didn't believe in fake plants. She bought it thinking it was real." I turned the notebook over in my hands. The leather was soft and cracked at the edges. Some of the pages were dog-eared. There was a coffee stain on the back cover. "But the new Vivian—the one who touched the leaves and realized they were plastic—she knew."
"You knew," Lucas said quietly.
"I didn't know. I just... followed the logic. The old me wouldn't look in something she thought was alive. Something she cared about. She wouldn't disturb Gerald." I almost smiled. "But I know Gerald is plastic. I know Gerald can keep a secret."
Sophie made a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. "You named the ficus Gerald in your first year as CEO. The email said Gerald the Ficus had a backstory. You wrote him an entire origin story in a memo to HR."
"I did what?"
"You said Gerald was an example of 'resilience in the face of artificial expectations.' HR was very confused. They framed the memo."
I looked at Lucas. "Is this true?"
"The memo is still in the break room on the 34th floor," he confirmed. "Employees refer to it as 'The Gerald Doctrine.'"
I stared at him. Then at Sophie. Then at Kevin.
"My life," I said, "is absolutely unhinged."
"Your life," Sophie said, "is a masterpiece. Now open the notebook."
---
We gathered around the kitchen island.
The notebook was thicker than I expected—pages worn and soft from years of handling. I opened it to the first page, and the handwriting was neat and careful, the handwriting of someone who was still trying to be perfect.
Day 1.
I started this notebook because my therapist said I should "document my feelings." I told her feelings were inefficient. She told me that was the most concerning thing she'd ever heard a CEO say.
So here I am. Documenting.
I feel... tired. I feel like I'm running a marathon where the finish line keeps moving. I feel like no one sees me, just the version of me they want to ask for money or time or favors.
I feel alone.
There. Documented. Are you happy, Dr. Park?
I turned to a random page in the middle. The handwriting was messier now. More urgent.
Day 847.
Lucas brought me coffee today without me asking. He always does that—anticipates what I need before I know I need it. His ears were pink when I said thank you. I don't think he knows I notice.
I notice everything about him. That's the problem.
I notice the way he organizes my files by color AND priority. I notice the way he stands near the door during meetings so I always have an exit strategy. I notice the way his ears change color depending on what he's feeling.
Sophie says I'm in love with him. Sophie is an idiot.
Sophie is also usually right.
(Don't tell her I wrote that. She'll make a PowerPoint.)
Sophie, reading over my shoulder, made a sound that was definitely a suppressed scream.
"POWERPOINT VINDICATION!" she shrieked. "YOU WROTE IT DOWN! YOU ADMITTED I WAS RIGHT!"
"Sophie, please—"
"THERE IS WRITTEN PROOF. IN YOUR OWN HANDWRITING. LUCAS, COME HERE. READ THIS."
"No," Lucas said from his spot near the window. His ears were already crimson.
"LUCAS."
"Absolutely not."
"She wrote about your ears. She writes about your ears MULTIPLE TIMES. There are diagrams—"
"There are not diagrams," I said quickly, flipping through. "Oh, wait. There's a sketch."
Sophie lunged for the notebook. I held it out of reach. Kevin, caught in the crossfire, held his laptop above his head like it was a holy artifact.
Lucas's ears were now the deepest shade I had ever seen. "I'm going to—"
"If you say 'get back to work,' I will throw this notebook at your head," Sophie said.
"I was going to say 'get some air.'"
"That's the same thing in Lucas-speak. Kevin, translate 'get some air.'"
"'I am experiencing an emotion and I need to leave the room before my ears become visible from space,'" Kevin said without looking up from his laptop.
Everyone stared at him.
"What?" Kevin shrugged. "I've worked with him for four years. I made a glossary."
"You made a glossary of Lucas's emotional expressions?" I asked.
"He has seventeen distinct ear shades. I've catalogued them. With hex codes."
Lucas looked like he was considering jumping out the window. The penthouse was on the 64th floor. It would have been impractical but, judging by his expression, not entirely off the table.
"Kevin," he said evenly. "We will discuss this later."
"That's Ear Shade #12," Kevin whispered to me. "'I Am Deeply Uncomfortable But Trying To Be Professional.' It's one of my favorites."
"You have a favorite?"
"I have a ranking."
---
I spent the rest of the afternoon reading the notebook.
Sophie eventually had to leave for a meeting—"I'm still employed by your company, technically, unless the amnesia counts as a termination"—and Kevin went with her, still clutching his laptop and muttering about "encrypted backup protocols" for what he was now calling "The Gerald Files."
Lucas stayed.
He always stayed.
"You don't have to be here," I said, curled up on the couch with the notebook in my lap. "I'm just reading. It's not exciting."
He was standing near the window, tablet in hand, posture perfect. "It is my responsibility to ensure your safety and comfort."
"You said that already."
"It remains true."
I turned a page. The handwriting had changed again—larger, messier, written in what looked like green gel pen.
Day 1,283.
I bought a ficus today. It's the first thing I've bought for myself in three years that isn't black or gray or tax-deductible.
The nursery owner asked if I wanted care instructions. I told him I'd figure it out. How hard can a plant be?
I named him Gerald. After my first CFO. Gerald the Second.
Lucas said naming a plant after a fired employee was "unconventional." His ears were pink when he said it. Shade #4: Mild Disapproval Mixed With Reluctant Affection.
I'm going to learn how to keep something alive. If I can't keep myself alive—happy, I mean, alive-happy—maybe I can at least keep Gerald alive.
Baby steps.
I closed the notebook.
"Lucas?"
"Yes?"
"Did I name the ficus Gerald because I missed the original Gerald?"
A pause. "Gerald Henderson was fired for embezzlement. You discovered the discrepancy yourself and reported him to the authorities."
"So no."
"No."
"Then why Gerald?"
Another pause. "Gerald Henderson was also the first person you ever hired. Before the embezzlement, before the betrayal—he was the one who believed in your company when no one else did. You named the ficus after the version of Gerald you wanted to remember. The one who believed in you."
I stared at him. "How do you know that?"
"I was there." His voice was quiet. "I have been there for six years, three months, and fifteen days. I remember everything."
"Because you have an excellent memory."
"Because—" He stopped. His ears went from pink to red to something new. Something softer. "Because you were the first person who ever made me feel like paying attention mattered."
The words hung in the air between us.
I thought about the notebook. The coffee stains and the dog-eared pages and the sketch of Lucas's ears that I had apparently drawn during a board meeting. I thought about the woman who had written those words—brilliant and driven and completely alone, hiding pieces of herself in a red leather notebook and a plastic ficus because she didn't know where else to put them.
"What else do you remember?" I asked.
"Everything."
"Tell me."
And he did.