Mafias addiction

Alex's Pov

"Tell me what you're thinking right now."

I stared at the message glowing on my phone screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. It was past midnight, and I should have been asleep, but these conversations had become my addiction. Three months of talking to someone who didn't know my last name, didn't know where I worked, didn't know anything except the parts of myself I chose to reveal.

"I'm thinking about how strange it is that you know me better than people I see every day," I typed back.

The response came quickly. "Maybe because I'm not looking at your surface. I'm listening to what's underneath."

I smiled in the darkness of my bedroom, feeling that familiar warmth spread through my chest. This stranger had become everything, my confidant, my escape, the person I thought about during boring meetings at Cross Industries.

Another message appeared. "What's stopping you from being yourself with the people around you?"

"Fear, I guess," I typed. "Fear of judgment. Fear of showing weakness. Fear of wanting things I'm not supposed to want."

"And what do you want?"

I hesitated, then decided honesty was why we were here. "Someone who sees me. Really sees me. Not the polished version I show the world."

"I see you, Alex."

My breath caught. "I want to meet you. I know we said we'd keep this anonymous, but I need to see you. I need to know if this feeling translates to real life."

Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. My heart hammered against my ribs.

"Are you sure? Once we meet, we can't go back."

"I'm sure. I've been sure for weeks now."

"Tomorrow night. I'll send you an address. Come at eight."

"I'll be there."

"Don't be nervous. I already know the real you."

I barely slept. The next day at work dragged endlessly. I sat through the morning marketing meeting, nodding at appropriate intervals while my mind raced ahead to tonight. Damien Cross presided over the conference table like a king surveying his kingdom, cold, commanding, untouchable. He'd built Cross Industries from nothing, and now it dominated the tech industry. Everyone feared him. I respected him professionally, but personally? He was ice.

"Carter, are you listening?"

I jerked my attention back to find Damien's steel-gray eyes fixed on me. "Yes, sir. The Q4 campaign projections."

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I asked about the social media metrics."

Heat crept up my neck. "Engagement is up thirty-two percent since we implemented the new strategy."

"And the conversion rate?"

"Up eighteen percent," I added quickly.

"Demographics?"

I pulled up the data on my tablet. "Primary engagement from the twenty-five to forty age range, sixty percent male, forty percent female."

"Good." He held my gaze for a beat too long before moving on to grill someone else. "Richardson, what about the budget allocation?"

I'd worked at Cross Industries for two years and I still couldn't read him. The man was a locked vault.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. The address. My pulse quickened.

The hours crawled by. My colleague Jennifer stopped by my desk around four.

"You okay? You seem distracted today."

"Just tired," I lied. "Didn't sleep well."

"Tell me about it. This workload is killing me." She perched on the edge of my desk. "Hey, some of us are grabbing drinks after work. You coming?"

"Can't tonight. I have plans."

"Ooh, plans?" She grinned. "Is it a date?"

"Something like that."