Chapter 7 Berlin Wall
# Chapter 7: Berlin Wall
Rain pattered against the window of Magnus's penthouse as Wynne sat across from him, two mugs of untouched coffee between them. After the chaos at the office—the board chairman ordering an emergency meeting, PR teams scrambling to explain the "innovative rebranding," executives whispering in corners—Magnus had simply taken her hand and said, "We need to talk. Not there."
Now, in the austere minimalism of his home, they faced each other in silence, the reconstructed proposal pages on the table like evidence from a crime scene.
"I should start," Magnus finally said, his voice lacking its usual commanding tone. "There are things you need to understand about me. About why this—" he gestured between them "—is so difficult for me."
Wynne nodded, waiting.
"I grew up in the St. Christopher Children's Home from age seven," he began, the words clearly unpracticed. "After my parents died in a car accident. No relatives stepped forward."
This wasn't in any of his official biographies. Magnus Perry's past before Harvard Business School was always vaguely referenced as "private education in New England."
"The orphanage was... efficient. Clean. Structured." His eyes focused on something distant. "They provided necessities but discouraged attachments. Children who formed close bonds were separated—different dormitories, different schedules. They believed it prepared us for 'independence.'"
He stood, moving to the rain-streaked window. "There was a boy there, David, who became my friend despite the rules. We were ten. One night, he became ill—severe asthma attack. I tried to help, ran to find a staff member, but the night supervisor was... indisposed. By the time the ambulance arrived, David was gone."
Wynne's chest tightened at the flat way he delivered this tragedy.
"The director called me to her office afterward. She said, 'This is why we discourage attachments, Magnus. They create vulnerability. Remember that pain you're feeling? That's what happens when you let people matter.'" His hands clasped behind his back. "I did remember. For decades."
"Magnus—"
"I built Perry Group from nothing with that philosophy," he continued. "No attachments. No vulnerabilities. It worked brilliantly until—" He turned to face her. "Until you walked into my conference room and argued with me about your access requirements."
A small smile touched Wynne's lips despite the heaviness of his confession. "Not many people argue with you, I imagine."
"No one," he confirmed. "It was... refreshing. Infuriating, but refreshing."
"Is that why you proposed our arrangement? To keep me arguing with you?"
"I proposed it because the board was pressuring me about my public image. But I chose you because..." He hesitated. "Because in that first meeting, you looked at me like I was just a person. Not Perry Group, not a billionaire, just someone you needed to convince."
Wynne rose, moving closer to him. "And the contract? Clause 13?"
"Self-protection," he admitted. "I knew even then that you were dangerous to my carefully constructed walls. I needed the reminder."
"A lot of good it did," she said softly.
"None whatsoever." His gaze held hers. "I've violated that clause every day since we signed it. The contract was supposed to keep things controlled, defined. Instead..."
"Instead, you renamed your company after me," she finished.
"Apparently." His smile was rueful. "Though that was genuinely unintentional."
Silence settled between them again, more comfortable than before. Wynne sensed there was more he needed to say, so she waited.
"Your turn," he finally said. "I've shown you mine."
Wynne took a deep breath. "I was a political communications director before crisis management. Fast-tracked, youngest in the governor's office."
"I know. It's in your file."
"What's not in my file is why I left." She wrapped her arms around herself. "My direct supervisor, the chief of staff, began with small invasions—standing too close, unnecessary touches. It escalated to late-night calls, showing up at my apartment. When I rebuffed him, he started undermining my work, claiming my ideas as his own."
Magnus's expression darkened. "Did you report him?"
"I tried. The governor called it a 'personality conflict' and offered to transfer me—to a much lower position. The chief of staff was his college roommate." The old anger resurfaced as she spoke. "I resigned instead. Rebuilt my career in private sector crisis management, where results matter more than connections."
"That's why you're so adamant about professional boundaries," Magnus realized aloud.
"Yes. And why our arrangement seemed perfect—clear parameters, explicit expectations, no power games." She met his eyes directly. "Until it wasn't perfect anymore. Until you started leaving heart-shaped notes in your trash and making me paper roses."
Before Magnus could respond, his phone rang—the board chairman's distinctive tone. He silenced it without looking.
"They've been calling non-stop," he explained. "The rebranding crisis."
"You should answer. It's your company."
"At the moment, there are more important things." He moved toward her slowly, as if approaching something precious and easily startled. "Wynne, I need to know—the offer from Archer & Bell. Have you decided?"
She hesitated. "It's complicated now."
"Because of the proposal draft? You should know I never intended for you to see that. I wasn't going to act on it."
"Why not?"
"Because I assumed you wouldn't want me to." His voice lowered. "Our arrangement was clear. Professional, not personal."
"And yet you made me chocolates for my birthday."
"A momentary weakness."
"And practiced speeches in stairwells."
"Theoretical exercises."
"And created ninety-nine paper roses with messages hidden inside."
He had the grace to look embarrassed. "That was... harder to justify professionally."
A commotion outside interrupted them—raised voices in the hallway, then insistent knocking. Magnus sighed and moved to the door, opening it to reveal Lydia looking frazzled, a tablet clutched in her hand.
"I'm sorry to intrude," she said, "but you need to see this immediately."
She handed Magnus the tablet, its screen displaying the company's internal network. A new hashtag dominated the feed: #WVMotionPlan. Hundreds of posts from employees across global offices showed staff wearing homemade WV badges, holding signs, or changing profile pictures to the new logo.
"What is this?" Magnus asked, scrolling through the posts.
"It appears to be a spontaneous employee movement," Lydia explained. "When the news broke about the logo change, someone in Tokyo started a rumor that it stood for 'Wynne-Valdez.' Now staff are rallying behind what they're calling 'the WV Motion Plan' to keep you together."
"They're... what?" Wynne peered over his shoulder at the feed.
"They're essentially on strike," Lydia said. "Demanding that the board not interfere with your relationship. The Sydney office has changed all their signage to read 'Team WV.' Marketing in London is refusing to reverse the logo change. HR in Chicago is distributing relationship counseling resources."
Magnus stared at the screen in disbelief. "This is unprecedented."
"There's more," Lydia continued. "Your former assistant, Daniel, sent this." She pulled up an email containing a document. "He says you asked him to research educational funding opportunities three years ago, and he thought Ms. Valdez should know about this now."
Wynne took the tablet, scanning the document—a trust fund established for Elena Valdez, her younger sister, providing full tuition for her medical education at Johns Hopkins. The benefactor was listed as the Perry Foundation, with Magnus Perry as the authorizing signatory. The date showed it had been established three years ago—long before Wynne and Magnus had ever met.
"Magnus?" Wynne looked up, confused. "You've been funding my sister's education? For years?"
He looked genuinely uncomfortable for the first time. "I saw her research proposal on childhood leukemia treatments. It was brilliant work that deserved support."
"But how did you even know she was my sister?"
Magnus hesitated. "When we first met, I had my team prepare a comprehensive brief on you. Standard procedure for high-level negotiations. Your family was mentioned."
"So you anonymously funded my sister's medical research because... what? You thought her work had merit?"
"I did," he confirmed. "I still do. The foundation funds dozens of promising researchers."
"But you specifically authorized this one. Three years ago."
Magnus seemed to be searching for words, a rare moment of uncertainty. "I may have been... intrigued by you before our official meeting. Your reputation in crisis management was impressive."
"Intrigued enough to investigate my family and fund my sister's education without ever meeting me?"
Before he could answer, Lydia cleared her throat. "I should mention that the board is convening in twenty minutes. They're discussing a motion to remove you as CEO, Magnus."
This snapped him back to business mode. "Tell them I'll be there."
After Lydia left, Wynne stared at Magnus with new understanding dawning. "You knew who I was before I walked into your conference room that first day. You'd been following my career."
"Yes," he admitted quietly.
"The contract, the 'arrangement'—was any of that real? Or was it all just an elaborate way to bring me into your orbit?"
"The board pressure was real," he said carefully. "But my choice of you was... not entirely based on professional considerations."
Wynne felt slightly dizzy with this revelation—that Magnus had been aware of her, interested in her, long before their paths officially crossed. It cast their entire relationship in a new light.
"I should go," she said suddenly, needing space to process everything. "You have a board rebellion to handle, and I have... a lot to think about."
"Wynne." Magnus stepped forward, catching her hand. "I know this is overwhelming. Finding out about my past, the sister's funding, the employee uprising—it's a lot. But please, don't make your decision about Archer & Bell until we've had a chance to talk further."
She looked down at their joined hands. "I need time, Magnus. This isn't just about a job offer anymore. It's about whether whatever is happening between us is real or constructed. Whether it can survive outside the parameters we created."
"I understand." He released her hand reluctantly. "Just know that for me, it's very real. Terrifyingly real."
As Wynne gathered her things to leave, her phone buzzed with a text from her sister: "Just heard about you and Magnus Perry! Why didn't you tell me he was your Magnus? He's been funding our entire research division for years—everyone here calls him 'the invisible guardian.' Call me ASAP!"
The message only added to Wynne's confusion. As she stepped into the elevator, she wondered if she had ever really known Magnus Perry at all—or if the man she thought she knew was just another carefully constructed facade, like the cold CEO persona he showed the world.
But facades didn't send paper roses with messages hidden inside. They didn't practice heartfelt speeches in empty stairwells. And they certainly didn't accidentally rename global corporations after the object of their affection.
Whatever Magnus Perry was to her—contract partner, secret admirer, or something yet undefined—he was definitely not the emotionless businessman she'd first met. That man would never have violated Clause 13 so thoroughly, so irreversibly.
The question now was whether she had violated it too—and whether she was brave enough to admit it.