Corporate Ancient Ruins

The presentation ended, and Richard found himself alone in the conference room, the corporate org chart still glowing on the screen. A pyramid of names, his own near the apex after thirty years of climbing over bodies and burning bridges. His iPhone buzzed—Sarah, asking if he'd be home for dinner. Again.

He stared at the glass walls, remembering the day he told her about the promotion. She'd been crying over their old dog Barnaby, diagnosed with cancer that same morning. The water in her eyes had mirrored everything he'd refused to see: his own emptiness, the hollow victory of his ascent.

"You're building monuments to yourself," she'd said then. "Just like those pharaohs you're always reading about. Dead men who wanted to live forever."

He'd laughed, dismissive. Now, at fifty-two, standing in his tailored suit in a glass tower, Richard understood. The Egyptians had believed they could take it with them—gold, servants, even beloved animals buried with them in intricate tombs. But all that remained were tourist attractions and broken pottery.

His phone showed Sarah's text again. He scrolled back to the photo she'd sent last week: Barnaby's grave, planted with rosemary. He'd missed the funeral. Too busy with the merger.

Richard walked to the window, watching the rain streak down the glass like tears. Somewhere in this city of steel and ambition, Sarah was waiting. Or maybe she wasn't. The pyramid on the screen flickered, hierarchical and absolute, but the only thing that truly mattered was whether he still had a home to return to.

He pressed the call button.