Page 58 of Engineering a Love Story

I glance at the Forbes cover, which features AOL CEO Steve Case under a headline about his grand plans for the service’s future after its implausible acquisition of Time Warner. I look at Evan. “Why?”

“Page twenty-nine.”

I flip to the story, my breath hooking in my throat when I see the headline: The Aurelian Systems Soap Opera.

There’s a half-page photo of Manish, Seth, and Vitalik in what I assume to be their apartment. There’s a ratty brown sofa with a bare window behind it. They’re in work clothes, khakis and dress shirts, which are incongruous with the tattered furnishings. They’re all laughing. Vitalik rests against a wall, hands behind him, head turned toward the camera. Manish perches on the sofa’s opposite arm facing his roommates. And Seth. Seth, movie-star handsome, sits on the sofa looking directly into the camera. I resist the urge to run my fingers across the photo.

I scan the article, which is ostensibly about all the unorthodox hiring practices that went on during the boom, when companies were so desperate for talent, they hired anyone and everyone—friends, roommates, siblings, it didn’t matter. Now, as the boom goes bust, executive teams are under more scrutiny and tensions are rising. What will become of all those unusual work-life dynamics?

For example, nearly 60% of hires last year at online banking start-up Aurelian Systems came via referrals from other employees. The executive team was also put together via the friends-and-family plan. Aurelian’s VP of Sales and co-founder Seth Murphy, age 29, has known co-founder Manish Bindra, also 29, since grade school. The two share a home and the executive suite. Their other roommate, Aurelian CTO Vitalik Orlov, who recently turned 31, met Bindra in college.

Work and home are intertwined for these three. There are push-up competitions in their underwear before breakfast and arguments about corporate strategy at lunch. Heading home, they grab takeout for dinner. Their apartment is decorated frat-boy chic, with framed posters sitting on the floor—Orlov mentions these have been there for years—and dirty dishes in the sink.

Disagreements in the office travel to the apartment. Bindra and Murphy recently argued about how a particular deal had progressed and whether Murphy might have done more to close it. Later that day, there was a dispute about whose turn it was to take out the garbage. “The trash never did go out that night,” Orlov recounts.

The drama even spills into their love lives. Murphy was recently romantically involved with an industry analyst who was making recommendations to technology buyers about Aurelian. Bindra felt it was inappropriate. So, Murphy ended it.

And so the world turns at Aurelian Systems, and many companies like it, as the year 2000 limps to a close in Silicon Valley.

I finish reading but continue to stare at the magazine, blood pounding in my face. I reread the final lines. He ended it? Seth couldn’t bring himself to tell me, but he told this reporter?

Slowly, I spin my chair to face Evan, who is squatting on the floor and trying to make eye contact with me.

“So, I read that,” he says, his voice quiet enough that others in the cubes around us can’t hear. “And I thought: maybe that’s not Chelsea. I mean, there are other analysts who cover Aurelian. That guy Paul whatsit at Aberson. I figured he was gay, but Seth could be—” I pull my eyes to meet Evan’s. “No,” he says. “I didn’t think so.” He reaches to put a hand on the edge of my chair. “Chelsea, if I read that article and figured out in about five seconds that you were sleeping with Seth Murphy, then Ronald Spillane or other Aurelian competitors, maybe even our clients, they’re going to make the same connection.”

I remember the pop of my pink dress in the room full of men at the Aurelian event and know Evan is right.

Here it is. The thing I feared. Well, not this exactly. Who could have known to fear this? But public exposure. Scandal. Heartbreak.

I stand abruptly, causing Evan to lose his balance and tip to sitting on the floor. I reach back and grab the magazine, tuck it under my arm, and leave him there.

First, I go to the ladies’ room, where I stare at my reflection and will myself not to cry. I slap the magazine against the counter. “Goddammit.” I can’t envision what will happen next, what Howard will say, what guys like Ronald Spillane will do.

And he ended it? Without telling me?

I decide to call Seth, wondering irrationally if there’s some way this might be undone. I leave the bathroom and walk to an empty conference room. Scrolling on my phone for his number, I try to remember if I’ve ever called him before. All that time I waited on him.

In the conference room with the deep windows, I climb into one of the slate sills and sit sideways, the magazine splayed open across my knees. I dial and Seth answers immediately.

“Chelsea.” He’s walking. I can hear his breath and the San Francisco wind.

“I just saw the article.”

“Yeah, that’s something, right? I knew it was going to be a disaster, a typical Manish transgression. But it’s worse than even I imagined. All of us working there, like it’s some kind of favor to him.” Seth speaks quickly, his voice low.

“Did you know this was coming?”

“Of course. The reporter came early last week. It was right after Manish and I argued about you, actually. If you can’t tell those are fake smiles on that sofa, you’re not looking closely enough.” He scoffs. “That sofa. How could Manish have possibly thought it was a good idea to invite a Forbes reporter to our apartment? We look like silly boys playing start-up. Claire is beside herself. And not only Claire.”

Seth is right. The profile portrays them as unprofessional, not a good look in the financial sector. Plus, I know the article must needle right at Seth’s insecurities about his status at the company and how it compares to Manish’s.

But, still. Is he not aware it mentions me? What this might mean for me? I ask him this, a little incredulous.

His voice softens. “I know. And I’m sorry. I’m not sure how that happened. Manish says it wasn’t him. It certainly wasn’t me.”

When he doesn’t offer any additional explanation, I say, “I need to speak with my boss about this.”

“Really? It doesn’t have your name.”