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There’s a special kind of headache reserved for men who realize they’ve been compromised by a woman with a podcast and an unemployed best friend.

I sit there, blinking at the door.

Emily. At the bar. With a guy who quoted me like he was trying to win a cosplay contest. Honestly, tragic. She deserves better—if only for comedic contrast.

But then there was Jessie.

Jessie, whom I brought there. Jessie, who sat beside Emily like they were already synced on some private frequency. Sipping a matcha spritz, nodding along to Emily’s eye-rolls like they co-authored Feminist Snark: A Manifesto .

Wait.

They know each other?

Worse—they like each other.

Jessie would’ve said something. Right?

Except she didn’t.

And now I’m flashing back—her casually mentioning she once edited a “small podcast project.”

Oh my God.

I hired the Zeta Slayer’s right hand.

And the worst part? I didn’t mean to hire a spy. She was just sharp. Quick. Unflappable. Found a typo in our onboarding packet and pitched a better tagline before I’d finished my coffee.

But now?

She’s a plant. A double agent. A sleeper cell in Docs and Slack.

I open my Google Drive and brace for impact.

Yep. There it is.

A document titled “Notes on Male Loneliness.”

It’s not even subtle. Just pages of half-baked thoughts like:

Maybe men don’t fear intimacy. Maybe they fear being disappointing when finally seen.

What if confidence isn’t armor? What if it’s being willing to stay after the apology?

Delete. Trash. Burn it with fire.

Next up: “Things I Wish My Dad Taught Me.”

Absolutely not. That one gets zipped, encrypted, renamed “April Tax Estimates 2023” and buried in a folder I label “Receipts” because no one ever clicks there.

I check Slack. There’s a draft message I almost sent to my video editor:

“This one felt too raw. Let’s keep the eye contact, lose the rage. I want people to feel held.”

I rewrite:

“This one’s soft. Recut with edge. Add a static punch after the quote drop.”

Cool. Masculinity salvaged.

But still—Jessie’s already seen me. Not candle-lit vulnerability me. But enough to know I drink almond milk matcha and once referred to a pitch as “emotionally discordant. ”

Which means she could go back to Emily and say the one thing that would destroy everything I’ve worked to build:

“He’s... kind of nice.”

I can’t let that happen.

So I do what any man does when he feels the slippery approach of self-awareness. I overcorrect.

Lights on. Ring light up. Voice low. Shoulders squared.

I hit record.

“Men,” I say, pausing for emphasis. “You don’t need to feel safe to be strong.”

Beat. No blinking. Minimal humanity.

“You need to be strong to be safe.”

I stare down the lens like it owes me child support.

“The world doesn’t wait for your comfort. It waits for your clarity.”

Another beat.

“No fluff. No feelings. Just forward.”

I hit stop. Exhale.

It's garbage, but it’s strategic garbage. It’s the kind of clip that gets reposted with captions like “He gets it” and “Masculinity redefined.” It’s a mask. Clickable and market-tested.

I upload it with the caption:

No apologies. Just protocol.

#IronMind #AlphaInProgress #NoMoreFeelings

Then I sit back and wait for the engagement to flood in like validation laced with dopamine.

But my mind’s still stuck on Jessie.

I think about her laughing in the kitchen yesterday.

About how she didn’t flinch when I told her most branding is just unresolved dad issues with a logo.

About how she organized my content calendar in under thirty minutes and then casually asked if I believed in moral gray zones “as a brand or as a person.” I didn’t answer.

Because I don’t know.

And because—

Yeah. Never mind.

Her loyalty isn’t neutral. It’s timestamped.

I should fire her.

But if I do, I’ll never know what she already told Emily.

And worse—what she might still tell her.

So I keep her close.

I wipe the matcha order from my Uber Eats history.

I tell the team to stop using words like “restorative” in public memos.

I post another video about grit. Grit is safe. Grit doesn’t cry in the car after visiting his mom.

Speaking of which... I glance at my calendar. A red reminder sits there, chirpy and cheerful and devastating:

“Call Mom.”

Jesus...

I hover. Just hover. Like deleting it would make me an orphan.

I should call her.

But I also just realized my assistant might be forwarding screenshots of my emotional development to a woman who once compared me to a scented trash fire with good lighting.

I sigh.

And then—click .

Delete.

Replace with:

“Finalize Q2 dominance framework.”

There. Very alpha.

And then, like some sick cosmic joke, my phone rings. Mom.

I freeze. Jessie is fifteen feet away, earbuds in, probably editing a thumbnail or writing a 10,000-word Slack message with citations. But she’s here. In range.

I hesitate. Let it ring once.

Twice.

Pick up.

“Hey,” I answer, lowering my voice to the CEO-register. “What’s the update on the... shipment?”

There’s a pause. “Andrew, honey, it’s just me.”

“Yes,” I say tightly, glancing over. Jessie doesn’t look up, but her fingers have gone still on the keyboard. “I’m circling back on that package. Just confirming ETA.”

“Oh,” Mom says, clearly playing along. “Well, I just wanted to say I’m so proud of your... latest drop.”

I mouth kill me and slowly rotate my chair away like I’m ducking enemy fire.

“Right. The drop. Engagement’s solid. Bounce rate’s clean.”

“Bounce rate?” she repeats, openly amused. “Is that your heart or your analytics?”

A cough from Jessie’s direction. Or a laugh. Hard to say.

“Let’s keep it high-level for now,” I say, trying to regain footing. “Just wanted to confirm alignment on Q2’s growth strategy.”

“We’re aligned,” Mom says cheerfully. “And I’ve defrosted the soup you like. We can onboard that tonight. ”

I press the heel of my palm to my forehead. “Love that for us.”

“Tell that nice assistant of yours I said hi,” she adds sweetly, because of course she does.

“Hard pass,” I mutter, and end the call with the finesse of someone hanging up on a live grenade.

Deep breath. Swivel back toward my desk.

Jessie doesn’t look up—but the smirk is back. Subtle. Calculated. The kind that makes you feel like she knows something .

And then, the kicker. Still typing, eyes on her screen:

“Tell your supplier I’m happy to review their Q2 positioning.”

I blink.

She couldn’t have seen the calendar entry.

Could she?

I deleted it.

But not right away.

Shit.

She’s going to tell Emily.

Or worse—she won’t.

She’ll keep it. Store it. File it in that internal hard drive labeled Adrian Zayne: Actual Human? ? and pull it out during some feminist group chat like it’s a magic trick.

I can’t have that.

I open my phone and order a coffee. Black. Hot. Double shot. No foam, no milk, no weakness on record.

Then I type a new note in Slack for the team:

“Next content drop: grit, power, discipline. No softness this week. ”

I stare at it a second longer.

Then add:

“No ‘growth’ metaphors either. Feels moist.”

Send.

Jessie looks up, finally. “Moist?”

“It’s a dangerous word,” I say simply.

She nods again. “Agreed.”

We don’t say anything else.

But I can feel it: she knows.

She knows I called my mom.

She knows I said onboard the soup.

And she’s not mocking me. She’s cataloguing me.

Which, somehow, is worse.

Because if she’s reporting back to Emily, I just gave them both something they can’t unsee:

A moment of actual softness.

God help me.