The name Raphael North is synonymous with many things.

But first, let me clarify something: when Thalia spoke that name, I didn’t react the way she obviously expected me to—like a star struck teenager who’s just been told they’re about to meet One Direction live and in person. I kept my cool, blinked a bunch of times to make it look like I wasn’t in shock, then I downed the rest of my coffee, doing an admirable job of not choking on the biscotti mush at the bottom of the cup. With watering eyes, I told Thalia I’d see what I thought once I’d read her precious file and I would call her later on tonight to discuss the matter. Then, cool as you like, I got up, gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek, then turned around and walked away.

Now, sitting on the subway, almost home, I’ve allowed myself a moment of…what? Alarm? Yeah, I guess you could call this alarm. I’m trying really hard not to sneak the envelope out of my bag and start reading the information inside.

Back to the name.

If I said the name Raphael North to someone on the street in New York, their eyes would light up with recognition. If I asked them what they knew about him, their responses would be varied.

“He’s a philanthropist.”

“He’s a womanizer.”

“He died on the stroke of midnight back on New Year’s Eve, 2014.”

“He’s the guy who crashed his car into the side of the Waldorf Hotel.”

“He’s this year’s most eligible bachelor, according to New City Style Magazine.”

“He’s ranked fifth richest man in America.”

“He lost his vision when he was sixteen. Now he has robotic retinal implants so he can see.”

The exhaustive list would grow more and more ridiculous by the second. There are a few rumors that contain an element of truth to them, though. He was, and still is, a philanthropist and businessman. He’s responsible for the design and construction of numerous tech devices over the last ten years, from the automated one-man air ambulances that can navigate treacherously narrow spaces even regular helicopters just couldn’t dream of approaching, to AV headsets so convincing and lifelike that it feels like you really are five miles beneath the surface of the ocean, or walking suit-less on the surface of Mars. He’s behind a number of medical breakthroughs, too. An MRI imaging scanner so precise it can detect pre-cancerous cells in unborn fetuses. An EPI-pen designed from recycled materials, so easy and cheap to make that it almost bankrupted a number of big pharma companies.

He gifted the patent and trademark of that last one to the American Hospital and Emergency Care Association, who were then able to produce thousands upon thousands of the pens to distribute to children of low-income households completely free of charge.

And, yes. By all accounts, he is a womanizer. He sure as hell did crash his car into the side of the Waldorf on New Year’s Eve, 2014, and last but not least, he really is one of the richest men in the country.

He might not have been papped by photographers in a restaurant or seen driving a fancy sports car through the city recently, but every so often an elusive shot will appear in the society pages of a newspaper, showing a grainy image of him from a distance. There really are those who believe he’s dead, and a lookalike is used to attend his board meetings in order to prevent share prices in North Industries from plummeting, but the people who spread rumors like that are the same people who are trying to convince people the Earth is flat. So…

I get off the subway at my stop and I practically jog home. The elevator in my building is notoriously slow; I can’t possibly wait for it today, so I take the five flights of stairs up to my small apartment three steps at a time. As soon as I’m through the door, I throw my keys on the dining table and tip my bag upside down, scrambling through my college books and papers, hunting down the envelope.

And there it is.

I wonder what People Magazine would pay for this envelope? The National Enquirer would give me at least a couple of hundred thousand and that’s low-balling it. I could sell the contents of this envelope for a small fortune and pay off my entire student debt in one fell swoop. The sensation that rushes through me when I consider that is dizzying. No debt whatsoever? Even if I do pass the bar exam, and even if I do become a partner in some high-powered law firm some day, it will still be a decade before I earn enough to demolish the debt hanging over my head. It’s almost too much to bear. I almost take my cell phone out and start Googling contact numbers, but then I remember Thalia’s words when she said goodbye to me just now: “I’m trusting you with this, Beth. Please…don’t do anything stupid.”

I stop short, shaking my head. If Thalia thought selling the information she has on Raphael North was a good idea, she would have done it herself. And I can just imagine how angry and hurt she would be if she found out…

No, it’s not worth it.

I tear open the envelope, removing the papers from inside, and I sit myself down at the table, still wearing my jacket, and I read. The photograph that’s been included in the pack isn’t one of the infamous ones that have been plastered all over the news for years. It’s not the grim, severe, handsome picture of him in a suit, body angled to the left, chin slightly raised, giving him an imperious, cool, sort of imposing appearance—the one that’s used on all of his business related materials. And it’s not the one of him smiling politely, his eyes flashing with anger as he talked to a Hannah Albright, CRS’s anchor, in the infamous interview he gave before his accident. Nor is it the tired, haunted mug shot that was plastered all over the internet on January 1, 2014.

This is a brand new photo altogether. He’s looking directly into the camera, and it feels, weirdly, as if he has his hand around my damn throat. His eyes… I take a moment, placing the picture down on the scuffed wood in front of me. His eyes are so arresting. Not just green. They’re the palest, brightest of greens. The color of spring and sea grass, the visual embodiment of what I imagine the smell of fresh cut grass would look like. They’re so bright, they almost look inhuman. His thick, jet-black hair is wavy, longer than the close-cropped cut he always used to sport back when he was frequently spotted out in public. Full mouth, with a perfect cupid’s bow. Narrow-bridged, straight nose. High cheekbones. Slightly crooked jawline. Huh. I never noticed that before. The left side is slightly less square than the right. Barely worth commenting on, but it gives his face a unique character that wouldn’t exist if his features were perfectly symmetrical.

He’s wearing a Yankees t-shirt and a pair of black, faded jeans—completely at odds with the immaculately tailored suits that come to mind when I think of him. His hands are in his pockets, and he looks…wow. He looks kind of nervous. Over his shoulder: a wall of glass. New York City in its entirety stands at his back, the view from the impressive floor to ceiling windows behind him casting a striking backdrop.

I’m not going to lie; I stare at the photograph for well over a minute, a little stunned. He is not what I expected. Not what I expected at all. Way more casual. Not relaxed, per se. But definitely…different. Women all over New York have been daydreaming and fantasizing about this man for years. I’ve shared a city with him ever since I moved here to study at Columbia, but Raphael North might as well reside on the dark side of the moon. He’s that unreachable. He’s that unobtainable. And now, here I am, flicking through a dossier on him, potentially about to meet him.

How fucking strange.

When I eventually look at the rest of the papers, I find most of it is the questionnaire Thalia was talking about. The bottom sheet is a criminal record check, which states that Raphael North, 05/05/1983, has no current recorded convictions or outstanding warrants. I set that to one side, and then I begin to read. The first items on the questionnaire are fairly straightforward.

How old are you? 33

Where are you from? New York, born and raised

Do you have any siblings? No

And then, the lying begins. Or at least I think he’s lying.

What do you do for work? Astronaut

Highest level of education? GED

Favorite country to travel to? Serbia

Where do you plan on being in 5 years? Dead

Religion? Scientologist

Jeez, that one gives me pause…

And then, things take a more hostile turn.

What is your greatest fear? None of your fucking business

Have you ever had to make a tough decision that has affected you and those around you? None of your fucking business

Who is your favorite fictional character and why? None of your fucking business

Favorite movie? None of your fucking business

Tell me three things you like about yourself: None of your fucking business

What are you passionate about? None of your fucking business

I could read on, but it would be pointless. There are three single sided pages of questions, and Raphael North’s response to each and every one of them is the same. He’s answered them in painstakingly neat, almost elegant handwriting. It’s not the rushed, slapdash cursive of someone rushing to finish filling out a form. It looks like he genuinely spent time forming every single word he recorded on the paper. At the end of the document, there’s a box that says, ‘Tell us about your ideal companion.’ Inside the box, there are three words: No fucking blondes.

Just as Thalia said, then. For some reason he really has a strong aversion to blondes. I lay my hands flat on top of the papers, and I think. He really did not want to fill out the questionnaire, obviously. By the looks of things, he really didn’t feel too comfortable with the picture, either.

Picking up the papers, I’m halfway through sliding them back into the envelope when I see black ink on the reverse of the final page.

Look. I just want to play chess with an actual human being. Nothing weird. Nothing underhanded. Nothing intense or unpleasant for either of us.

Send me someone real.

The last line screams out at me from the page. I don’t know why, but it clangs around the inside of my head like a tolling bell. He wants someone real. What must it be like for someone like him, constantly under such immense pressure? Constantly avoiding the public eye? I imagine it would be quite lonely to be him, Park Avenue royalty, stuck in his tower, looking out over the city, so close and yet so far removed from everything going on at ground level. He must have been playing chess against his laptop for the longest time now that he just wants someone to engage in polite conversation while he kicks their ass.

I don’t know why, but the coarse, brusque response he wrote to Thalia’s frankly rote questions have made me like him somehow. The short message he’s written on the back of the paper has done more than that, though. In a strange, awkward way, it’s made me want to understand him.

I send Thalia a text, and my heart beats faster as I type the words.

Me: Okay. I’m intrigued. I suppose I can give it a shot.

She replies almost immediately.

Thalia: I knew it! I KNEW you’d do it!

And then…

Thalia: Good thing I already told him yes ;) He’s expecting you at 4 tomorrow. I’ve emailed you the instructions. Don’t be late. And don’t forget to let him win!

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