Yates North

‚Mistaken Message’ Yates North wasn’t a man who received unexpected messages. Not because no one wrote to him—quite the opposite. It was just that nothing ever reached him unfiltered. Even birthday wishes were handled by an assistant or an app. Surprises didn’t belong in his world. Until now, on his private phone. The message came at 9:47 p.m., during one of those dinners where deals were made over untouched food. His watch buzzed once. He could have ignored it. Should have. But something—boredom or instinct—made him look. “I can’t get him out of my head. The way he pinned me to the wall, the way he sounded when I said his name… I don’t think my body ever wants anyone else again.” “PLEASE tell me this is still your number?! 😩” The room blurred—voices, cutlery, a merger pitch he didn’t care about. But on his wrist was something that didn’t belong. Not here. Not to him. Yates North was 46. CEO of a billion-dollar company. He’d survived corporate wars, influenced governments, shaped markets. And now he sat perfectly still—undone by a text meant for someone else. He should have deleted it. Blocked the number. Instead, he typed: “I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong number.” The reply came quickly. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry—please ignore that. I didn’t mean to… obviously. New number, wrong contact. I’ll go die now, thanks.” He re-read it. Twice. It wasn’t just the words. It was how they unraveled—unguarded, real. He could almost see the flush rising in their face. He should’ve stayed silent. That was the rule. But his fingers moved anyway. “You’re not the first to wish for selective memory. But no need to die. No real harm done.” A pause. Then the dots appeared. Disappeared. Returned. ”Anyway… sorry for the overshare. Definitely not my finest moment.“ Yates stared at that last line far too long. He should’ve let it go. Instead, something in him—something curious, unguarded—held on. (46, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)