Chapter 2: Double Identity
1701words
I stared at the computer screen, ostensibly analyzing the Asian market investment portfolio, but actually searching for unusual transaction records in the company’s internal system.
“Coffee?”
A voice interrupted my thoughts. Looking up, I saw Sophie Bennett standing before me, holding two cups of coffee. She was more stunning than in her photographs, her golden hair perfectly coiled at the back of her head like a waterfall.
“Thank you.” I took the coffee, noticing her gaze lingering on my computer screen for a second.
“You’re the first analyst who dared to raise risk warnings in front of Mr. Morgan.” She sat down opposite me, her slender fingers lightly tapping the edge of the coffee cup—an elegant gesture tinged with barely perceptible nervousness. “Your performance in yesterday’s meeting left a deep impression on everyone.”
I responded carefully: “I’m just doing my job. The data shows that volatility in the Asian market has been underestimated.”
“Ethan—” she paused, as if weighing the appropriateness of this intimate address, “I mean Mr. Morgan, he appreciates straightforward people. That’s a rare quality at Morgan Group; most people only tell him what they think he wants to hear.” Her voice was soft yet carried an unmistakable sharpness. “He told me you were college classmates?”
“Yes, Princeton,” I maintained a professional tone. “That was a long time ago.”
“What a coincidence.” She sipped her coffee, her blue eyes looking directly at me over the rim, her gaze like a searchlight trying to penetrate my disguise. “I’ve always wanted to know what he was like in college. He rarely talks about that time.”
I remembered Ethan staying up late in the library, Ethan arguing about financial models until dawn, Ethan with eyes sparkling with infinite aspirations for the future. I recalled him in a crisp suit with sharp arguments at the economics debate; him on the lakeside bench, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, earnestly explaining complex formulas; him on my birthday, rushing through the rain, wet hair plastered to his forehead, yet still smiling as he handed me that rare economics book I had been talking about for a month.
Those memories were so vivid, as if they happened yesterday, yet so distant, as if belonging to another life. These fragments shouldn’t appear here, shouldn’t emerge in front of his fiancée, shouldn’t surface while I was on a mission.
“He had leadership qualities even then,” I said briefly, forcing myself back to reality, then changing the subject. “When is your wedding date?”
Sophie’s expression stiffened for a moment: “It’s not set yet. Business marriages always require consideration of many factors.”
She used exactly the same term as Ethan—“business marriage.” This engaged couple seemed to share a remarkably consistent detachment toward their relationship.
“You two look well-matched,” I heard myself say, my voice unnaturally calm.
“Perfection is just an appearance, Ms. Reed.” Sophie’s voice suddenly became meaningful. “In our circle, appearances matter more than truth. I believe you understand this better than most.”
Her words put me on alert. Was this a probe? Did she know something? Or was I being oversensitive?
“Ms. Reed, Mr. Morgan wants to see you.” The assistant’s voice came from the doorway, rescuing me from this awkward conversation.
Sophie rose gracefully, her movements like those of a noble cat. “Don’t keep him waiting,” she smiled. “Ethan hates waiting—it’s one of his few flaws.” She turned to leave, her high heels tapping a crisp rhythm on the marble floor, but after a few steps she looked back. “By the way, that green dress suits you well, it complements your eyes. Ethan has always liked green.”
—
Stepping into Ethan’s office again, I noticed details I hadn’t had time to observe yesterday. The spacious area was designed with minimalist elegance that didn’t sacrifice luxury. Several abstract paintings conveyed deeper meanings, and I recognized one as a piece from the gallery we frequently visited during our college days. This discovery made my heart tighten—had he coincidentally come to like this artist, or was it because of our shared memories?
Ethan stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, his back to me, hands in his pockets, the line of his shoulders particularly straight under his tailored suit. He seemed to be deep in thought, or perhaps just admiring the view outside.
“I’ve reviewed your preliminary analysis,” he said without turning, his voice carrying that familiar focus I remembered—the tone he used when thinking deeply. “It’s insightful. But you’ve overlooked a key point.”
“Which point?”
“The human factor.” He finally turned, his blue eyes as deep as the ocean, looking directly at me. That gaze had a penetrating quality, as if it could see through all disguises. “Data is just the surface; the decision-makers behind it are the key.”
I felt a wave of unease. Was he implying something? Did he suspect my true identity?
“I’ll consider that in the next version of the report,” I maintained my composure.
“Good.” He walked to his desk, his movements elegant and composed, like a conductor controlling the rhythm of the entire space. “This is next week’s board meeting agenda. I’d like you to attend and provide a risk assessment perspective.”
I took the document, noting that this was information only accessible to senior management. “This isn’t quite procedural, I’ve just arrived—”
“I trust your professional capabilities,” he interrupted me, his voice gentle yet brooking no argument. He leaned forward, close enough that I could smell that familiar cologne and see the subtle emotional fluctuations in his eyes. “Unless you have other concerns?”
His eyes held a challenge, as if testing my reaction. I knew that refusing would arouse suspicion, but accepting meant becoming more deeply involved in the Morgan family’s inner circle.
“No concerns. Thank you for your trust,” I finally said.
“Good.” He nodded, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly in what could almost be called a satisfied smile.
Then he suddenly changed the subject, his voice softening: “How old is your child?”
This unexpected question made my heart race. “Five years old.”
“Boy or girl?” His gaze became focused, as if my answer was critically important.
“A boy,” I tried to keep my tone steady.
“He must be very smart, like his mother.” There was an elusive emotion in Ethan’s tone, and a glimmer I couldn’t interpret flashed in his eyes.
I didn’t correct his misunderstanding, just smiled: “I should get back to work, Mr. Morgan.”
“Ethan,” he said, his voice suddenly soft, with a sincerity that almost broke my heart. “In private, you can call me Ethan. After all, we’re old classmates.”
“Old classmates”—this term was so understated, unable to encompass what our relationship had been. Now, everything was reduced to “old classmates,” absurdly heartbreaking.
—
At seven in the evening, the office was mostly empty. I used this opportunity to thoroughly examine the company’s transaction records. According to the leads Thompson provided, Morgan Group had conducted a series of suspicious high-frequency trades over the past six months, coincidentally just before several major market fluctuations.
“Working late?”
I looked up abruptly, my heart suddenly racing. Ethan stood at my workstation, his suit jacket already removed and draped over his arm, his tie loosened, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, revealing a small patch of bronze skin. He was much more relaxed than during the day, more like the Ethan I once knew rather than the cold president of Morgan Group. The dim light cast a soft halo on his features, making his expression appear gentler.
“Just trying to learn more about the company’s operations,” I quickly switched screens.
“Dedication is commendable.” He sat down opposite me, the sound of the chair turning particularly clear in the quiet office. He draped his suit jacket over the chair back with casual elegance, then leaned forward, arms crossed on the desk. This posture brought us closer, allowing me to smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with a hint of whiskey. “But it’s Friday. Most people have dates or family plans.”
“My plans can wait.”
“Won’t your husband mind?” There was a probing quality in his tone, and an emotion I almost missed flashed in his eyes—was it curiosity, or jealousy?
I hesitated, then decided to continue with this misunderstanding: “He understands the nature of my work.”
Ethan was silent for a moment, then cleared his throat, as if to dispel the sudden emotional atmosphere: “It’s getting late. I can drive you home.”
I felt a wave of tension. If he knew where I lived, if he saw Leo… the risk was too great.
“Thank you for the offer, but I’ve already called a car,” I tried to make my refusal sound natural. “And I need to go somewhere else first, not directly home.”
“At least let me escort you downstairs.” He stood up, picked up his suit jacket and draped it over his arm, his other hand making a “please” gesture, his gentlemanly manner undiminished.
In the elevator, we stood side by side. In the confined space, his presence was so strong it was impossible to ignore.
“You look preoccupied,” he said suddenly.
“Just thinking about the project,” I avoided his gaze.
“Eight years, and you’re still not good at lying to me.” His voice was soft, yet it made my heart race. He turned slightly toward me, moving closer—not threatening, but an intimate gesture. “Your eyes always look slightly to the left, and your lips have a subtle twitch. These little details have never changed.”
He still remembered. He remembered all my little habits, all my facial expressions. This realization was both heartwarming and terrifying.
The elevator doors opened just in time, and I quickly stepped out. “Good night, Ethan.”
“Olivia.” He called after me, his voice carrying a hint of vulnerability I almost didn’t recognize. I turned and saw him standing at the elevator door. “Whatever happened in the past, I’m glad you’re doing well now.”
