Page 16 of The Authenticity Clause
“It was the opposite of calculated,” she corrected, her smile knowing. “It was a leap of faith. You saw a spark and instead of smothering it with a fire blanket of logic, you gave it oxygen. It’s a good look for you. Makes you seem… flexible.”
Flexible.The word made his teeth ache. He wasn’t flexible. He was structured. He was precise. Flexibility was for yoga instructors and politicians. He built systems that were robust and unyielding because that was how you achieved excellence. Letting Leo Hayes run wild wasn't a strategy; it was an aberration.
“The numbers will determine if it was the correct decision,” he said stiffly.
“The numbers already look good,” Sarah countered, hopping off the desk. “Engagement on the preliminary mock-ups is through the roof. The client thinks we’re geniuses.” She paused at the door. “He’s good for us, Julian. And maybe,” she added with a wink, “he’s good for you, too.”
She left, and the silence she left behind felt heavier than before.Good for him.As if he were a project that needed improving. Annoyance prickled under his skin. He had built this agency on a foundation of unyielding standards. He didn’t need some chaotic artist in a band t-shirt to teach him how to do his job.
Still searching for a logical anchor in this sea of newfound emotion, he closed the video file and pulled up Leo’s original application. He just needed to find the data point he had missed,the key that would make Hayes make sense. He scrolled through the CV again.B.A. in Visual Arts, summa cum laude.That was impressive, if a bit soft. A string of freelance projects. The portfolio was the thing that had caught his eye, specifically the passion project—the “Etherea” app concept. It was that project that had aligned so perfectly with the Northwind problem.
His eyes scanned the list of technical proficiencies.Advanced knowledge of the Adobe Creative Suite, UX/UI wireframing, front-end coding…It was a solid list. His gaze snagged on one line item:Certified Agile Project Management, Scrimshaw Institute, 2022.Scrimshaw. He’d never heard of it. A small certification, probably. But the year… 2022. He remembered a freelance project listed for the same year, a six-month intensive branding gig for a startup. It would have been difficult, though not impossible, to complete both simultaneously.
A tiny flag, barely visible, went up in the back of his mind. An inconsistency. A variable unaccounted for. On impulse, he opened a new browser tab and typed "Scrimshaw Institute Project Management" into the search bar. The results were… nothing. A few links to an art museum known for its scrimshaw collection. A genealogical record for someone named Scrimshaw. But no institute. No certification program.
He frowned. That was strange. He tried a few different search variations. Nothing. It was as if the place didn't exist. He zoomed in on the PDF of the resume, looking for a link. There wasn’t one. He made a mental note to ask Leo about it. Probably an online-only program with poor SEO. A typo, most likely. People made mistakes. He had more important anomalies to deal with.
He leaned back in his chair, the minor puzzle of the CV dissolving as the larger one took its place. He swiveled his chairto face the main office, looking through the glass wall that separated his quiet sanctum from the rest of the floor.
The Northwind team was gathered around Leo’s desk. Leo wasn’t sitting; he was perched on the edge, leaning forward, hands moving animatedly as he described something on his screen. Anya was nodding eagerly, David was laughing, and two junior designers were watching Leo with the kind of rapt attention they usually reserved for viral TikToks. There was an energy emanating from that small cluster of desks, a palpable buzz of collaborative joy. It was messy. It was inefficient. People were talking over each other. Someone was doodling on a sticky note instead of taking formal minutes.
By all of Julian’s metrics, it should have been an unproductive disaster.
But he could see the idea evolving in real time, growing stronger and more interesting with every chaotic interruption. Julian recalled the last major project launch. He had run it with military precision. Every meeting had an agenda. Every deliverable was on time. They had produced excellent work, but the process had been a silent, sterile march to the finish line. There had been no laughter. No excited interruptions. Just the quiet, relentless hum of productivity.
Now, he watched as Anya, inspired by something Leo said, grabbed a marker and started sketching a new interface element right on the glass partition wall, something Julian normally would have forbidden. But Leo didn't stop her; he encouraged her, adding a detail with his own marker, the two of them building on each other's ideas in a flurry of creative energy. Leo wasn’t just leading; he was conducting. He was drawing out the best notes from each person, weaving them togetherinto a harmony Julian’s structured, top-down approach rarely achieved.
Julian watched them, his hands still. He didn’t get up. He didn’t rap on the glass. He didn’t send a curt Slack message about maintaining professional decorum.
He just watched. And as he watched the brilliant, impossible anomaly he had invited into his perfectly ordered world, a dangerous thought began to take root in the fertile ground of his frustration.
Maybe,it whispered,control isn’t the only path to perfection.
Chapter 12: The Stillness
The past week had been the most creatively fulfilling of Leo’s entire life. For the first time, he wasn’t just an employee; he was a conductor. He spent his days in a whirlwind of collaborative energy, bouncing between designers and copywriters, protecting the fragile, chaotic heart of the Northwind project. He was thriving, buzzing with a professional confidence that was so new and shiny it practically squeaked.
But as five o’clock rolled around on Friday, that confidence was still a costume he was terrified of taking off. Especially because Julian Thorne was still in the office.
The workday was officially over, but Julian remained at his desk, a monolith of focused energy, his brow furrowed as he reviewed a set of analytics. The quiet hum of the office had shifted into the rustle of people packing up, the low murmur of weekend plans being made. Leo was methodically tidying his own desk—a losing battle against entropy—while trying to look like he wasn't acutely aware of every move his boss made. It was a delicate dance of feigned nonchalance and hyper-awareness.
“See you Monday, Leo!” Maya called out, shrugging on her coat.
“Have a good one!” he called back, forcing a relaxed grin.Just act normal. Normal people aren’t terrified of their incredibly handsome, intimidating bosses.
Then, the world outside went dark.
It wasn't the gentle dimming of twilight. It was as if someone had thrown a heavy, gray blanket over the sky. A low, ominous rumble vibrated through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Everyone paused.
“Was that… thunder?” David asked from across the room.
The answer came in the form of a flash of brilliant white light that illuminated the office in stark, photographic detail, followed an instant later by a crack of thunder so loud and close it rattled the glass in its frames.
And then, the heavens opened.
It wasn't rain. It was a solid wall of water, a biblical deluge that slammed against the windows with a deafening roar. The view of Starling Grove vanished, replaced by a churning, liquid gray.
The office, previously filled with the lazy energy of a departing workforce, erupted into a low-grade panic. The frantic energy of a fire drill, but for weather. People who had been casually strolling toward the elevators were now in a dead sprint. Coats were yanked from hooks, bags were slung over shoulders, and a chorus of worried calls to loved ones filled the air.
