Chapter 5 The Paper Rose Revolution
# Chapter 5: The Paper Rose Revolution
The first message appeared on Perry Group's internal message board at 9:17 AM on a Tuesday: "Has anyone else noticed the CEO's strange behavior lately? #TotallyNotNormal"
By noon, the thread had seventy-three responses from employees across different departments:
"He approved my vacation request in 3 minutes. Usually takes a week."
"Meeting ended 20 minutes early yesterday because he 'had somewhere to be.'"
"Caught him smiling at his phone in the elevator???"
"Security says he's been leaving at 7 PM sharp every Tuesday and Thursday."
By 3 PM, someone had created the hashtag #CEOBehaviorStrange, and it quickly became the most active topic on the company's internal network. The speculation ranged from reasonable to absurd:
"Maybe he's finally using that meditation app HR recommended."
"Alien abduction and imperfect replacement."
"It's because of Wynne Valdez. He's actually HAPPY."
Wynne discovered the thread while researching employee sentiment for an upcoming internal communications plan. Her first instinct was to alert Magnus—this kind of gossip could undermine his authority. But curiosity kept her scrolling through the comments, especially the ones mentioning her.
The latest post made her pause: "He goes to the 7-11 on 42nd every Tuesday at 7:15. Never buys anything. Just checks his watch and leaves."
Strange indeed. Magnus Perry, with his personal chef and disdain for processed food, voluntarily entering a convenience store? And why would he—
Her phone buzzed with a calendar alert: "Quarterly review with M. Perry - 4 PM."
Wynne closed the message board, deciding to keep her discovery to herself for now.
---
Three days later, Wynne woke with a pounding headache and congested sinuses—a cold that had been threatening all week had finally taken hold. She called her assistant to reschedule her morning meetings and settled back into bed, a rare sick day for someone who prided herself on resilience.
By midday, her apartment doorman called up: "Ms. Valdez, there's a delivery for you."
Wrapped in a robe and feeling miserable, Wynne opened her door to find a courier with a large flat box. "Special delivery," he said. "Signature required."
Inside her apartment, she opened the package to find ninety-nine paper roses, each intricately folded from high-quality paper in various shades of blue—her favorite color. They weren't the cheap origami flowers found in gift shops; these were complex creations with delicately curled petals and realistic stems wrapped in green paper.
No card accompanied the delivery, but Wynne didn't need one to guess the sender. Only Magnus would be so precise—ninety-nine roses, not a hundred. Always slightly unconventional.
She picked up one flower, admiring its craftsmanship, and noticed something unusual. Inside the bloom, visible when she gently opened the petals, was a small strip of paper with printed text: "Your strategic thinking is extraordinary."
Curious now, she examined another rose: "I admire how you handle difficult people with grace."
Each flower contained a different message—observations, compliments, and reflections, all about her:
"The way you explain complex ideas makes them accessible to everyone."
"Your laughter during the London presentation saved the entire meeting."
"I've never seen anyone command a room's attention like you did in Tokyo."
Wynne sat surrounded by paper blooms, reading message after message—each one a specific moment or quality Magnus had noticed about her. Not generic compliments, but detailed observations that proved he had been paying attention to every interaction they'd had over the past five months.
The final rose, slightly larger than the others, contained a different kind of message: "I hope you feel better soon. Take the time you need."
She reached for her phone to thank him, then hesitated. This gesture went far beyond their contractual relationship. Acknowledging it would mean acknowledging that something had changed between them—something neither had put into words.
Instead, she texted Lydia: "Please tell Mr. Perry I received the delivery and appreciate the thought."
The response came minutes later: "He says you're welcome. Also, chicken soup will arrive at 6 PM. His grandmother's recipe."
Wynne smiled despite her congestion, placing the paper roses in a large crystal bowl where they formed a sea of blue—a tangible representation of words Magnus apparently couldn't say directly.
---
One week later, Wynne finished a late conference call and headed to the employee kitchen for coffee. The executive floor was quiet at 8 PM, most staff long gone. As she passed the fire exit stairwell, a voice stopped her—Magnus's voice, though with an unfamiliar tone.
"I've been meaning to tell you something important," he was saying.
Wynne froze. Was someone else working late?
"No, that's too formal," his voice continued. "Wynne, over these past months, I've come to... No, that's worse."
Realization dawned—he was alone, practicing a speech. Wynne knew she should announce her presence or walk away, but curiosity rooted her to the spot.
"This isn't about the contract anymore," Magnus continued, his voice softer than she'd ever heard it. "I find myself thinking about you even when there's no professional reason to do so. I notice things—how you take your coffee differently in the morning than afternoon, how you always touch your necklace when you're thinking deeply, how your eyes catch the light when you're about to challenge someone's idea."
A pause, then: "I know Clause 13 explicitly prohibits this, but I find myself... I believe I'm..."
The sound of a door opening elsewhere in the hallway broke the moment. Wynne quickly retreated to the kitchen, heart racing as she processed what she'd overheard.
Magnus Perry—controlled, calculating, emotionally reserved—was practicing what sounded remarkably like a declaration of feelings. For her.
The implications were overwhelming. Their arrangement had always been clear: performance, not emotion. A business transaction with mutual benefits. If genuine feelings had developed, everything would change.
Wynne was still contemplating this when she returned to her office and found an envelope on her desk. Inside was an offer letter from Archer & Bell, Perry Group's main competitor—offering her a position as their Chief Communications Officer with a salary nearly double her current earnings.
The letter was accompanied by a handwritten note: "We've watched your work with Perry Group. Impressed by your capabilities, not your relationship status. This offer is about talent, not tabloid potential. Consider a position where your personal life isn't company property."
Wynne set the letter down, suddenly feeling the weight of her complicated situation. For months, she'd been navigating the increasingly blurry line between professional arrangement and personal connection. Now, a clean break presented itself—a chance to return to a simpler professional existence.
The rational choice was clear. Take the offer. End the charade with Magnus. Return to a life where her romantic status wasn't subject to board approval and media scrutiny.
Yet the thought of walking away from Magnus—from whatever undefined thing was growing between them—created an unexpected hollowness in her chest.
She was still holding the offer letter when her phone buzzed with a text from Magnus: "Need your input on Tokyo expansion announcement. Available tomorrow morning?"
Such a normal, professional request—as if he hadn't been practicing emotional declarations in a stairwell, as if he hadn't sent her ninety-nine paper roses each containing a personal observation.
Wynne placed the competitor's offer in her desk drawer. She would make her decision tomorrow, after meeting with Magnus. One final chance to determine whether what existed between them was worth the complications it would inevitably bring.
"Available at 8," she texted back. "Your office."
His reply came seconds later: "Thank you."
Just two simple words, yet Wynne found herself wondering if they carried the weight of more than just professional gratitude. The Magnus she had first met six months ago would never have thanked her for simply doing her job. But this Magnus—the one who made chocolates for her birthday and created paper roses with hidden messages—seemed increasingly like someone she hadn't fully met yet.
Someone who, despite Clause 13's golden warning, might be worth getting to know better.
