I lasted three days before I googled him.
Three days of pretending the gold invitation on my kitchen counter wasn't there. Three days of telling myself that whatever happened at the gala was just a weird blip - rich guy indulging in slumming it with the help, nothing more.
Three days of lying to myself.
Wednesday night, I cracked. Laptop open, wine glass full, dignity nowhere to be found.
Alexander Sterling.
The search results were... a lot.
Forbes profiles. TechCrunch articles. A Wikipedia page that was probably longer than my entire life story. Photos of him at charity events, tech conferences, standing next to people whose net worth had too many zeros for my brain to process.
Alexander Sterling, 34, CEO of Sterling Innovations. The company that had something to do with AI and infrastructure and a bunch of other words that sounded important when strung together. His father had founded it. Alexander had transformed it. Blah blah blah, billionaire by 30, blah blah, "most eligible bachelor" according to some magazine I'd never heard of.
There were dating rumors - a actress, a tech investor, someone described as a "European heiress" which sounded fake but probably wasn't. None of the relationships seemed to stick. The most recent photo with a woman was from eight months ago, some gala in Singapore. She was beautiful in that intimidating way where even her posture looked expensive.
I took another sip of wine and scrolled deeper.
There was a profile from three years ago in New York Magazine - one of those "day in the life" pieces. It painted him as brilliant but distant. Demanding but fair. The kind of boss people both feared and wanted to impress. There was a quote from a former employee: "He sees three moves ahead of everyone else. It's impressive and exhausting in equal measure."
Another article mentioned his mother died when he was twelve. Father passed five years ago, leaving him the company. No siblings. A penthouse in Manhattan, the Hamptons house he apparently never used, and a place in Tokyo he visited quarterly.
The more I read, the more I realized: Alexander Sterling wasn't just rich. He was isolated-rich. The kind of wealthy where everyone wanted something from you, so you stopped trusting anyone.
I closed the laptop.
This was stupid. I was reading about him like he was a character in a book, not an actual person who'd - what? Looked at me a few times? Sent a car? That didn't mean anything.
Except he'd redirected an invitation. Specifically for me. After reading something I wrote that seventeen people had seen.
Why?
Thursday morning, I got a LinkedIn notification.
Alexander Sterling viewed your profile.
I stared at my phone for a full thirty seconds.
He was looking at my page. Right now. Or he had been. Recently enough that LinkedIn felt the need to tell me about it.
My profile was embarrassing. The photo was from two years ago, back when I thought I'd land a real copywriting job. My headline still said "Freelance Writer & Content Strategist" which was code for "will write anything for money." I had maybe eight connections, half of whom were bots.
And Alexander Sterling- a man who probably had recruiters fighting over who got to headhunt for him - had looked at it.
I refreshed the page. Still there.
Don't respond. Don't message him. Don't—
A new notification popped up.
Alexander Sterling sent you a message.
Oh god.
I opened it. My hands were doing that thing again - shaking just enough to be annoying.
Aria,
I hope this isn't overstepping. I wanted to reach out directly rather than leaving things ambiguous. The December gala is three weeks away. I realize I extended the invitation somewhat impulsively, and you're under no obligation to attend.
That said, I'd like you to come. Not as staff. As my guest.
If you're interested, my assistant will handle the details - dress, transportation, anything you need. If you're not, I understand. No hard feelings either way.
- Alexander
I read it four times.
Then I read it again, looking for the catch. The part where this turned into something transactional or weird or too-good-to-be-true.
But it was just... straightforward. Almost awkward in how formal it was, like he'd drafted it multiple times before sending.
As my guest.
Not as a curiosity. Not as a mistake he was being polite about. As someone he actively wanted there.
I should've felt flattered. Maybe I did. But mostly I felt confused and a little suspicious. Men like Alexander Sterling didn't just invite random women to galas because they liked their essay about gentrification.
I typed and deleted three different responses before settling on:
That's... very generous. Can I ask why?
His response came faster than I expected.
Because I'd like to see you again. And because you're the only person at these events who doesn't pretend to care about quarterly earnings reports.
I laughed. Actually laughed, alone in my apartment, at a LinkedIn message.
You don't know that. Maybe I love quarterly earnings reports.
Do you?
I don't even know what they are.
Exactly. That's refreshing.
I stared at the screen. He was... flirting? Maybe? It was hard to tell through corporate messaging platforms.
I'll think about it, I typed.
Fair enough. Take your time.
I closed the laptop again and sat there, feeling like I'd just agreed to something I didn't fully understand.
Friday afternoon, my phone rang. Unknown number.
"Hello?"
"Ms. Hale?" A woman's voice. Professional. Efficient. "This is Caroline Wu, Mr. Sterling's assistant. He asked me to reach out regarding the December 15th event."
I almost said wrong number out of reflex. "Oh. Um. Hi."
"Mr. Sterling wanted me to clarify that his offer stands regardless of your decision timeline. However, if you are planning to attend, we'd need to arrange wardrobe by next week. No pressure - just logistical planning."
Wardrobe. Like I was going to a movie premiere.
"I haven't decided yet," I said.
"Of course. Would it help if I sent over event details? Guest list, itinerary, that sort of thing?"
"Maybe? I don't know. This is... weird."
There was a pause. Then, quieter, almost like she was smiling: "For what it's worth, Mr. Sterling doesn't usually do this."
"Do what?"
"Invite people personally. He's very private." Another pause. "I've worked for him for six years. This is the first time he's asked me to coordinate something like this."
I didn't know what to do with that information.
"I'll send the details anyway," Caroline said. "If you decide to come, wonderful. If not, no one will bother you about it. Does that work?"
"Yeah. Okay. Thanks."
She hung up, and I was left standing in my kitchen, staring at the gold invitation that had been haunting my counter for three days.
The smart thing would be to say no. To keep my life simple and my boundaries clear. Alexander Sterling was a complication I didn't need - charming and intense and way too interested in someone he barely knew.
But god, I wanted to say yes.
Not because of the money or the dress or even the event itself. But because for the first time in a long time, someone saw me- really saw me- and didn't look away.
Even if I didn't fully understand why.
I picked up my phone and opened LinkedIn.
Okay. I'll come. But I'm buying my own dress.
His response was immediate.
Deal. Though for the record, my assistant has excellent taste.
I'm sure she does. But this one's on me.
Understood. See you December 15th, Aria.
I set the phone down and exhaled.
Three weeks. I had three weeks to figure out what I'd just agreed to.
And maybe, if I was lucky, three weeks to figure out why Alexander Sterling gave a damn about a girl who crashed his party and couldn't tell a Monet from a Manet.
My laptop was still open on the couch, a spreadsheet blinking at me. Rent. Bills. A reminder from my boss about an overdue project. Reality was still here, waiting.
By midnight, I'd talked myself out of going. By morning, I'd talked myself back in.
Spoiler: I wouldn't figure it out.
But I'd show up anyway.