Page 25 of Love Letters from a Libra
Yet, I headed to my computer to log into work. My dashboard alert pinged three minutes into the video call, a priority breach attempt on the law firm’s eastern server. On the center monitor, my client, Yelena Mercer, CEO for Brabourne and Associates, one of the East Coast’s most prominent corporate law firms, nodded. She was one of the good ones. She actually understoodthe technical details rather than just nodding along until I got to the bottom line.
“Did they target anyone specific?” she asked.
“Three partners in the mergers and acquisitions division. The pattern suggests the same group that hit Preston and Lowe last month. Corporate espionage, not random hackers.” I kept my voice even and professional while I executed a tracer protocol following the attack back to its source.
“The vulnerability wasn’t in your infrastructure. It was a targeted phishing attempt against your litigation team. It was sophisticated enough to get past the first layer, but our secondary protocols caught it,” I explained as my eyes scanned the alert details. I explained the technical details to Yelena, my mouth operating on autopilot while a part of my brain handled the security response.
But there was a third party on my mind now, one that kept slipping in sideways, Zanaa, and how her eyes widened slightly when I explained what I did for a living. She wasn’t impressed exactly, but interested in a way most people weren’t.
“Most people hear cybersecurity and think I just reset passwords all day,” I explained to her.
“I figured it was more like being a digital detective, finding patterns, tracking break rooms, most even the ones people didn’t see,”she had replied.
The accuracy of her assessment caught me off guard. Most people didn’t see the elegance and artistry beneath the technical surface of what I did.
“Jules, your thoughts on implementing this across all of our satellite offices?” Yelena’s voice pulled me back to the present.
“It’s necessary but not sufficient. The technology is solid, but your weakest points will always be human. We should run a simulated attack against all offices simultaneously to see where the knowledge gaps are,” I answered.
Yelena made a note, her expression approving. “That’s why we keep you on retainer; you’re always three steps ahead.”
“Can we discuss the human element? Your last training session with our partners was effective, and even Thompson paid attention. That man doesn’t listen to anyone. You have a gift for making people hear you.” Yelena smiled.
“Clear communication saves time and resources,” I replied. The response was professional and impractical.
“It’s more than that. You listen first, really listen, which is rare. Sometimes, the people who listen the best are the ones who never got heard growing up.” She tilted her head.
My fingers froze mid-stroke. The muscles in my jaw locked tight enough to crack walnuts, and heat ran up my spine. I was nine years old again for a split second, sitting silently at the kitchen table while my mother argued with her latest boyfriend.I didn’t have a voice back then, so my observations, questions, and fears were bottled up, because no one had time for a child’s concerns when adult chaos was unfolding. I learned that being heard was a luxury, not a right for a child.
The memory flooded my system with unwanted adrenaline. I swallowed it down and reset my expression to neutral, forcing my fingers to work. The entire episode took less than two seconds, not long enough for Yelena to notice the fracture in my professional facade.
“Active listening is an underrated tool. People reveal vulnerabilities in how they describe problems,” I said, my voice steady again.
Yelena nodded, apparently satisfied with my redirection. “Whatever the reason, it works. The partners are actually implementing your recommendations, which is more than I can say for the last three consultants.”
However, part of my mind remained stuck on her casual observation, the one that landed with the precision of a targeted missile.
Sometimes, the people who listen the best are the ones who never got heard growing up.
The truth of it settled uncomfortably in my chest, like a foreign object, my body wanting to reject it. I didn’t discuss my childhood. I didn’t examine it. I compartmentalized it the same way I segmented a hard drive, storing necessary files where they couldn’t corrupt the operating system.
Yet here, this woman, this client who knew nothing about my past beyond my professional credentials, accidentally assessed restricted memory sectors with a throwaway comment. It reminded me too much of Zanaa and how she saw parts of me that I hadn’t revealed, how her questions found the seams in my carefully constructed self.
The similarity triggered another cascade of thoughts I didn’t want during a client meeting. Her text was still unanswered, her presence lingering in my apartment and my head.
“I’ll have the implementation plan to you by the end of the day,” I said as the meeting wrapped up.
“It’s always a pleasure, Jules. We appreciate your thoroughness,” Yelena replied. I smiled at her before the call ended. I sat motionless for at least thirty seconds, breathing in the welcomed silence on my desk beside the keyboard. In the kitchen, my personal phone was still face down, and Zanaa’s text was still unanswered.
I returned my attention to the security dashboard. I rolled my shoulders back, noticing the tension before typing the implementation plan. I was building digital walls while trying not to think about the ones that got breached inside of me.
It had been a few weeks since our second date, and another week had passed without any communication. I guess she got tired of waiting. Three simple words sat on my screen that shouldn’t have complicated my breathing.Free Friday night?The logical response was: Yeah, what’s on your mind? It was direct and straightforward, yet I was paralyzed.
The leather couch creaked beneath me as I sat down, and I typed out.
Me:
I’m free. Your place or mine?
