Chapter 3 Glimmers of a Crack
# Chapter 3: Glimmers of a Crack
Wynne's birthday began like any other workday—early alarm, black coffee, emails before sunrise. She preferred it that way. Her thirty-second year could pass without fanfare, just as her thirty-first had. Only her sister had texted at midnight: "Happy birthday! Still pretending it's not happening?"
By the time she arrived at her office, she'd almost convinced herself the day was unremarkable. Then she saw the package.
It sat innocuously on her desk—a matte black box tied with simple twine, no card or note. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, lay twenty-four handcrafted chocolate truffles, each one a miniature work of art.
"Those arrived by courier this morning," her assistant said from the doorway. "Very mysterious. The delivery service wouldn't say who sent them."
Wynne selected one, biting into its shell. Dark chocolate with a hint of sea salt and cardamom—her favorite flavor profile, though she couldn't recall mentioning that to anyone at Perry Group.
"Any guesses?" her assistant pressed, clearly invested in the mystery.
"None," Wynne replied, though her thoughts immediately turned to Magnus. They'd been "dating" for nearly two months now, appearing together at events twice weekly. But their private interactions remained strictly professional—he'd never indicated any knowledge of her birthday.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Lydia: "Meeting with legal at 10. CEO will attend."
Wynne put the chocolates away, curiosity temporarily shelved beneath work obligations.
Magnus was already in the conference room when she arrived, deep in conversation with the head counsel. He acknowledged her with the barest nod before continuing his discussion, giving no indication that today was anything special.
Not that she'd expected otherwise. Their arrangement was clear. Performance, not sentiment.
The day progressed normally until late afternoon, when her assistant rushed in. "There's a call for you on line three. Someone from... Cocoa Artisan Workshop? They said it's urgent."
Puzzled, Wynne picked up. "This is Wynne Valdez."
"Ms. Valdez, this is Chef Martin from Cocoa Artisan. I wanted to apologize personally about this morning's delivery."
"Apology? The chocolates were exquisite."
"Yes, but they weren't what Mr. Perry ordered. He specifically requested the twenty-four-piece birthday selection with cardamom infusion, but there was a mix-up. The ones you received were his practice batch from last night's private lesson."
Wynne's hand tightened on the receiver. "Magnus Perry took a chocolate-making class?"
"Yes, he attended our midnight session. Most determined student I've had—insisted on making everything himself despite... well, let's say culinary arts aren't his natural talent. But he was adamant the gift be personal."
After hanging up, Wynne stared at the chocolate box, mind racing. Magnus had spent his night learning to make chocolates for her birthday. The same man who delegated even the signing of his Christmas cards had created something with his own hands—for her.
It made no sense within the parameters of their agreement.
---
Two weeks later, Wynne found herself alone in an elevator with Magnus, descending from a client meeting on the fortieth floor. When the car jolted to a sudden stop between floors, emergency lights flickered on.
"Perfect," Magnus muttered, reaching for the emergency call button.
"Maintenance says it's a system glitch," he reported after a brief conversation. "Should be resolved in twenty minutes."
Wynne nodded, leaning against the wall. "At least we're not in imminent danger."
"Actually, elevator accidents account for approximately thirty deaths per year in the United States," Magnus stated, loosening his tie slightly. "Though cables snapping is extremely rare. Modern elevators have multiple safety features."
Wynne raised an eyebrow. "Is reciting statistics how you calm your nerves?"
"I'm not nervous," he replied automatically, though his tapping finger against his thigh suggested otherwise.
"Of course not," she agreed, sliding down to sit on the floor. "The great Magnus Perry, afraid of a stuck elevator? Impossible."
To her surprise, he joined her on the floor, his impeccable suit incongruous against the metal surface.
"I'm not fond of confined spaces," he admitted after a moment. "Childhood incident."
The unexpected vulnerability in his voice made her chest tighten. "Want to talk about something else?"
"Please."
"Tell me about your emergency plans," she suggested, remembering a conversation fragment she'd overheard between him and his security team.
His expression lightened. "You want to hear my contingency protocols?"
"Why not? We have time to kill."
What followed was perhaps the most bizarre elevator conversation in corporate history. Magnus detailed his meticulously planned response for a private airplane crash—complete with survival gear specifications, terrain navigation techniques, and a communication system involving mirror signals.
"You've really thought this through," Wynne said, fascinated by this glimpse of his methodical mind.
"I prepare for all possibilities," he replied, now visibly relaxed despite their confinement. "Including how to fashion a fishing spear from aircraft debris."
"Useful skill for Manhattan," she teased.
His laugh—rare and genuine—transformed his face. For a moment, he looked younger, unburdened.
"You know," she said without thinking, "this is the most normal conversation we've had."
The admission hung between them, acknowledging the artifice that usually surrounded their interactions. Magnus's eyes met hers, something unspoken passing between them before the elevator hummed back to life.
They both stood quickly, adjusting clothing and resuming professional postures. By the time the doors opened to the lobby, all traces of their brief connection had vanished.
Or so Wynne thought.
---
"Ms. Valdez? Sorry to disturb you."
Wynne looked up from her laptop to find Maria, the evening cleaning staff supervisor, hovering in her doorway.
"No problem, Maria. Everything okay?"
The older woman twisted her hands nervously. "It's probably nothing, but my new girl, she's worried she did something wrong. In the CEO's office."
Wynne set aside her work. "What happened?"
"She was emptying trash bins and noticed something... unusual. She's afraid Mr. Perry will be angry."
"Show me," Wynne said, following Maria down the hallway to Magnus's office.
The young cleaner stood anxiously by the desk. "I wasn't snooping, I swear," she said immediately. "But when I emptied his trash bin, I saw these." She pointed to the container.
Wynne peered inside. Amid crumpled papers and coffee receipts were torn scraps of pink paper—heart-shaped sticky notes, ripped into pieces.
"They're in there almost every night," Maria explained. "Always torn up like that."
"I see," Wynne said carefully, processing this peculiar discovery. Magnus Perry, with his sterile office and paperless workflow, using heart-shaped notes? It seemed impossible. "Thank you for telling me. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about."
After reassuring the cleaning staff, Wynne returned to her office, distracted by this new puzzle piece. Heart-shaped notes, chocolate-making classes, emergency plans that seemed designed specifically to engage her interest... None of it aligned with their contractual relationship.
She was still contemplating these inconsistencies when her phone buzzed with a news alert: "TECH POWER COUPLE THREATENED? Magnus Perry's Ex Returns to Reclaim Territory"
The article featured photos of Magnus with a striking blonde, identified as Elise Harmon, international model and his most recent girlfriend before Wynne. According to "inside sources," Elise had returned to New York with the explicit intention of winning Magnus back.
Wynne stared at the screen, an unexpected tightness forming in her chest. The story was likely fabricated—gossip sites had been inventing drama about them for weeks—but something about seeing Magnus with his former flame stirred a reaction she wasn't prepared for.
Her phone rang, Magnus's name on the display.
"I assume you've seen it," he said without preamble.
"Just now," she confirmed, keeping her voice neutral.
"It's nonsense. Elise is in Milan for a campaign."
"You don't need to explain," Wynne said quickly. "Our arrangement doesn't require fidelity, just the appearance of it."
A pause stretched between them. "Nevertheless," he finally said, "I wanted you to know it's false."
After they hung up, Wynne sat motionless, confronting an uncomfortable realization. Despite Clause 13's golden warning against emotional attachment, something was shifting between them—something neither had anticipated when signing their perfect contract.
The torn heart-shaped notes in Magnus's trash suddenly seemed like a metaphor for what was happening: carefully controlled feelings, systematically destroyed, yet leaving evidence behind.
