My boss, Weston Perry, ran a fever of 107.6 degrees last month. Once his temperature finally broke, he woke up convinced I was a cockatiel. He bought an entire bookshelf’s worth of parrot care manuals. One of the highlighted rules read: “Cockatiels require at least two hours of daily vocal interaction with their owners to prevent depression.” So, this ruthless titan of the Chicago business world, universally feared in every corporate boardroom, sat in front of me every single day reading quarterly financial reports. When he finished, he’d ask me in this incredibly gentle, nurturing voice: “What do you want to learn today, sweetheart? Come on, say it with me—”quarterly revenue is up thirteen percent year-over-year”.” His executive assistant stood outside the glass door, looking like he was walking the green mile. I endured this for a month before I finally snapped, told him I wasn’t a bird, and declared I was quitting. He was so thrilled. He picked me up, spun me around, his eyes shining with a pure, ridiculous joy. “You spoke a whole sentence! Say it again. I need to record it and set it as my ringtone.” … Weston gripped me right under the arms, lifting me into the air and spinning me around in a circle. The look in his eyes right now was a mix of paternal pride and absolute, manic ecstasy. I was so dizzy the room was tilting. I just hung there in his strong grip like a discarded rag doll, completely resigned to my fate. My name is Mona. I’m the executive assistant to Weston Perry, CEO of the Perry Group. A month ago, in our desperate bid to lock down the European market, Weston had the entire team pulling eighty-hour weeks. We practically lived in the office. The night of the launch party, our iron-willed boss finally collapsed. His temperature spiked to 107.6. I ended up speeding him to the ER in the middle of the night. The doctor told me if we’d arrived ten minutes later, his brain would have literally cooked. Three days later, Weston finally woke up. I was wearing a bright, grass-green knit sweater, standing by his hospital bed peeling an apple. He opened his eyes, staring at me for a solid five minutes. I honestly thought he was about to promise me a massive bonus. Instead, he reached out, grabbed my wrist with a tight, concerned frown, and turned to the chief resident who had just rushed in. He asked, deadly serious: “Why is there a cockatiel in my recovery room?” “Who authorized putting this green-feathered bird in here?” The silence in the room was absolute. It felt like the air had been sucked out of the space. The medical team ordered an emergency brain scan, eventually concluding that the fever had temporarily fried a very specific cognitive pathway. In Weston’s mind, I was no longer the tireless assistant who had worked herself to the bone for him for three years. I was a rare, highly delicate, vibrant green cockatiel. The day he was discharged, Weston had his security detail pack up my things and bring me straight to his Gold Coast penthouse. His logic was simple: “She’s a clever little thing. I’m keeping her.” My first instinct was to run. But then he deposited a fifty-thousand-dollar “nutritional stipend” directly into my bank account. As a corporate wage slave, I sold my dignity. Shamelessly. I figured playing along meant eating gourmet food and doing nothing. But I severely underestimated how meticulous Weston could be. He installed an entire wall of shelves dedicated to “The Complete Guide to Avian Care”. One page read: “Cockatiels are incredibly fragile and prone to escape.” So, that very night, he hired contractors to replace every single floor-to-ceiling window in his penthouse with bulletproof glass. He didn’t even leave a gap in the vents. Furthermore, the manuals claimed birds love shiny objects and mirrors. He hung delicate sterling silver bells all over the living room and commissioned a massive, custom-built vanity mirror just for me. My meals were prepared by a private, Michelin-starred chef—curated “premium bird food” consisting of shelled macadamia nuts and perfectly cubed organic fruit. He even insisted my drinking water be kept at a precise ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit. I endured this suffocating, gilded-cage life for a month. Finally, I broke. I gathered my courage to tell him I was leaving. Instead of getting angry, he looked ecstatic. He whipped out his phone, opened the voice memo app, and shoved it toward my face. “Sweetheart, that was beautiful. Your pronunciation of ‘I’m not a bird’ was absolutely perfect. Say it again.” I smacked the phone out of his hand, utterly exasperated. “Weston! You are out of your mind! I want to eat greasy burgers, I want to go outside, and I am sick of chewing on raw almonds and apple slices!” The smile on his face froze. He caught my hands, his expression darkening into something deeply earnest, almost reprimanding. “Absolutely not.” “The manuals are very clear. Birds cannot have heavy, oily, or spicy foods. It ruins their plumage.” “I saw how many feathers you lost in the shower drain when you washed your hair last night. I’m already incredibly worried.” Looking at his deadpan, utterly serious face, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Burn it down. Let the whole world just burn. The next day, Weston insisted on taking me to the office. His reasoning: “Birds cannot be left alone. They develop severe separation anxiety. She must stay with me.” And so, a bizarre spectacle unfolded in the executive suites of Perry Group. Right next to the mahogany executive desk, a massive, hand-woven rattan swing nest hung from the ceiling. It was lined with the softest, plush white cashmere blankets. A ring of glittering crystal wind chimes hung around it, chiming at the slightest touch. “Go play in your swing for a bit. I have a meeting.” Weston, immaculate in his bespoke Tom Ford suit, flicked one of the crystal chimes with a long, elegant finger. The room filled with a soft “ting”. He was gesturing for me to “go back to my nest.” I gripped the doorframe for dear life. “I’m not getting in there! What self-respecting executive assistant works from a suspended swing?” “You aren’t an assistant. You’re Kiwi.” He corrected me with infinite patience, stepping closer. Ignoring my struggles, he scooped me up by the waist and deposited me gently into the pillowy rattan nest. Forced to sit cross-legged in the swing, surrounded by sparkling crystal chimes, I wished for the ground to open up and swallow me whole. When Toby, his assistant, walked in with a stack of documents, he took one look at me. His face looked like he was fighting for his life in purgatory. His shoulders shook violently as he tried to swallow his laughter. “M-Mr. Perry, here are the quarterly financial reports…” Toby stammered, handing over the folder. Weston gave him a freezing look. “Keep your voice down. You’re startling my bird.” Toby shut up instantly, threw me a look of profound pity, and practically scrambled out of the office. Once the door clicked shut, Weston picked up the reports. According to that damn “Avian Care Manual”, parrots need two hours of daily conversation. You have to teach them to mimic words, otherwise they feel neglected and sink into depression. So, Weston dragged a chair over, sitting right beside my swing. He opened the folder and looked up at me, his eyes incredibly tender, filled with the kind of patience you’d reserve for a toddler. “Kiwi, what do you want to learn today?” “Come on, repeat after me: “Quarterly revenue grew by thirteen percent year-over-year”.” I rolled my eyes, grabbed a macadamia nut from the silver tray beside me, popped it into my mouth, and mumbled around it: “No. Screw off.” Instead of getting angry, Weston pulled a sleek leather-bound notebook from his desk drawer and made a meticulous entry: “[Slightly aggressive behavior today. Potentially entering a hormonal phase. Requires additional companionship.]” I nearly fell out of the swing. “Weston, I am begging you to snap out of it!” I groaned, utterly defeated. “I am Mona! Mona! The person who pulled three consecutive all-nighters to help you rewrite the acquisition draft!” He stopped writing, raising his head to stare at me in silence. For a fleeting, hopeful second, I thought the fog had cleared. But then he sighed, reached out, and gently took my wrist. He pulled a small blue velvet box from his pocket. He clicked it open to reveal a custom-made diamond tennis bracelet, dazzling under the office lights. “The books say once a bird is bonded, you should band them to prevent them from flying away.” He slipped the diamond bracelet onto my wrist with exquisite care. “It’s a little loose, but it’s shiny. It complements your feathers nicely.” “Now that it’s on, you’re my bird. No flying away, understood?” Looking at the blinding diamonds resting on my skin, I chose shameful, quiet submission. You know what? Being a fifty-thousand-dollar-a-month “cockatiel” with a custom diamond leg band actually wasn’t the worst gig in the world. For the first month, I tried every trick in the book to jog his memory. But eventually, I just got used to it. Because mental delusion aside, Weston was a flawlessly attentive caretaker. The demanding, hyper-critical boss who would dock your bonus over a misplaced comma was gone. In his place was a man who personally tested the temperature of my drinking water against the back of his hand. It was the weekend. I had just taken a shower and was towel-drying my hair as I walked into the living room. Weston was sitting on the sofa, reviewing some legal documents. Seeing me come out, he naturally set the papers aside and patted the cushion next to him. “Come here. Let’s dry this, or your feathers will get damp and you’ll catch a cold.” I walked over and sat down, turning my back to him with practiced ease. He turned the hair dryer to its lowest, gentlest setting. His long fingers slid through my damp hair, incredibly light, brushing through the strands. The warm air on my scalp was so soothing I could feel myself drifting off. Suddenly, the gentle movement stopped. The hum of the dryer died with a sharp click. I turned around, confused. Weston was deathly pale, his pupils blown wide. He was staring, transfixed, at a small clump of loose hair in his palm—just the normal shedding that happens when you wash your hair. “Did you pull out your feathers?” His voice was actually trembling, laced with an undercurrent of pure terror. I blinked. “What? No, it’s just normal shedding…” “This is the first stage of depression!” Weston didn’t hear a word of my explanation. He stood up abruptly, pacing the hardwood floor of the living room like a caged animal. “Have I not been talking to you enough these past two days?” “Or did you not like the nuts I ordered?” “Why would you hurt yourself?” “Weston, calm down. Seriously, this isn’t feather-plucking…” Before I could even finish the sentence, he had his phone out. He dialed the number for the most exclusive exotic veterinary specialist in the city. Half an hour later, a sweating veterinarian burst into the penthouse, medical bag in hand, flanked by two bewildered assistants. When the vet saw me sitting on the sofa, wrapped comfortably in a plush bathrobe, completely unharmed, he froze. “Mr. Perry… where is the cockatiel?” the vet stammered. Weston immediately shielded me behind him, his expression grim. “Her mood has been highly unstable lately. She’s started self-harming, plucking her own feathers. Check if she’s under too much stress.” The vet looked at me, then at Weston, his face turning an exquisite shade of pale. He looked like he’d swallowed a toad. But under Weston’s unyielding, icy glare, the doctor had no choice but to play along. He stepped forward, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Uh… hello there, Miss Kiwi.” “Have you been feeling… out of sorts lately? Any… urge to fly away?” I was mortified. I could have dug a hole in the floor and crawled into it. Grit my teeth, I looked at the vet. “I am not depressed. I just want to go shopping for some clothes.” The vet looked like he’d just been granted a royal pardon. He turned to Weston with absolute gravity. “Mr. Perry, your bird is physically fine. She is simply in her molting phase.” “I highly recommend taking her out for… retail therapy. A little shopping always improves their mood.” The tension in Weston’s jaw finally dissolved. He let out a long, ragged breath. He stepped closer, cup-shaping my face with both hands. His eyes held the fragile relief of someone who had just saved a life. “You scared me to death,” he whispered. “If you want pretty things, just tell me. No more pulling out your feathers, okay?” Staring into his handsome face, so close I could feel his breath, and seeing the absolute, unadulterated worry in his eyes, my heart skipped a beat. I suddenly remembered the man Weston was before he got sick. He was demanding, yes, but fiercely protective. Once, at a high-stakes corporate dinner, a client had had too much to drink and tried to put his hands on me. Weston had calmly thrown a cup of scalding tea right at the man’s feet, his voice dropping to a deadly chill: “Do not touch my people. Ever.” The memory of him that night bled into the man standing in front of me now, whose eyes were rimmed with red just because I’d lost a few strands of hair. I sighed, my hand reaching out to gently tug at the hem of his shirt. “Okay. Understood, caretaker.” After that incident, Weston’s protective instincts flared to a borderline pathological degree. Not only did he hand me a black Amex card for “retail therapy,” but he also insisted on personally approving every outfit I wore. Nothing too thin—he was terrified the wind would damage my “feathers.” One Tuesday afternoon, Weston had a massive bidding war to attend for a prime piece of real estate downtown. Before leaving, he insisted on ushering me into the back of his SUV. “The bidding venue will be chaotic. I won’t have peace of mind leaving you at home,” he said, wrapping a thick, oversized wool coat around my shoulders as he buckled my seatbelt. “Besides, you’re my lucky charm today. Having you there will bring me good fortune.” I smiled, helpless. “Sure, whatever you say.” The SUV glided smoothly along the elevated highway. Weston sat beside me, keeping his head down as he reviewed the bid documents. His profile was striking, the sharp lines of his face softening only when he looked my way. Every so often, he’d reach out, his fingers gently brushing the top of my head. But just as we approached the exit ramp, everything went wrong. A massive dump truck, completely out of control, tore through the median barrier from the opposite lane, barreling straight toward our passenger side. “Mr. Perry! Watch out!” Frank, our driver, shrieked, wrenching the steering wheel violently. The tires screeched against the asphalt, a high-pitched wail of friction. The violent turn threw me hard against the door. In the split second before impact, Weston threw his files aside. His arm shot out, pulling me hard against him, shielding my body with his own. He tucked me tightly into his chest, using his back to block the side window where the shattered glass was about to blow. The collision was deafening. The airbags deployed with a violent pop. Glass exploded inward, raining down in a million glittering shards. Our vehicle spun, slamming hard against the concrete barrier. In the final, brutal shudder of the crash, I felt Weston’s body go rigid. His head collided heavily with the window frame—a sickening, muffled thud. “Weston!” I struggled out of his arms, my head ringing with a high-pitched buzz. Weston’s eyes were shut tight, his face bloodless. A dark stream of crimson crept down his temple, dripping onto the back of my hand. It felt searingly hot. He was completely unconscious. … Two hours later, in the hallway of the ICU. I sat on the plastic chairs, shivering. My white sweater was ruined, stained with his blood. My mind kept replaying the image of him throwing himself over me without a moment’s hesitation. The red light above the operating room finally flicked off. The doctor stepped out, pulling off his surgical mask with a tired sigh. “He’s going to be fine, Miss. Just a mild concussion and some bruising.” “And… the impact of the crash actually seems to have dissolved the old hematoma that was putting pressure on his cognitive nerves.” The doctor looked at me and nodded. “His cognitive impairment has been completely resolved.”
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