Corporate Ascent

David had spent thirty years climbing the corporate pyramid, each step requiring sacrifices he'd stopped counting. The corner office with floor-to-ceiling views of Chicago had been his prize, though lately, he spent more time staring at the rain streaking the glass than reviewing quarterly reports.

"You're missing the meeting," his assistant said through the intercom. "The acquisition team is waiting."

"Bull," David muttered. He wasn't missing anything. He was choosing something else.

The truth was, he'd been noticing things lately. The way the receptionist's hands trembled when she handed him mail. How his VP of operations constantly rehearsed his jokes in the elevator. The spinach stuck in the CFO's teeth during the last board meeting — a vivid green shard of authenticity that nobody dared mention, because power demanded pretense, even when it was ridiculous.

David's wife Elena had left him six months ago. Not for another man, but for herself. "You're climbing something that doesn't exist," she'd said, packing her books. "And I can't watch anymore."

He'd thought she was being dramatic. He'd been wrong.

The intercom buzzed again. "Sir?"

David pressed the button. "Cancel the meeting."

"But—"

"Cancel it."

He stood up, walked to the window, and watched the city below. Somewhere down there, Elena was probably having lunch. Maybe with spinach in her teeth, laughing with someone who didn't care about appearances. Someone who knew that pyramids were just tombs for the living, and bullshit was what people said when they were afraid to admit they were already dead inside.

David picked up his phone and dialed.

"Elena?" he said when she answered. "I have spinach stuck in my teeth, and I don't know what I'm doing."