Corporate Retreat

The pool at the Oasis Marriott was empty at 2 AM, which was exactly why Elena sat on its edge, legs dangling in the chlorinated water. Her iPhone buzzed against the concrete — David again. Three missed calls, twelve texts. She let it buzz.

"You've got spinach in your teeth," he'd told her at dinner, pointing. The CEO had laughed. The whole table had laughed. Elena had excused herself, walked to the restroom, and picked the green shred from her front tooth with a trembling hand. It wasn't spinach. She hadn't eaten spinach.

She remembered clearly: David had spinach. She didn't.

The palm trees around the pool cast long shadows in the moonlight. This was supposed to be a team-building weekend — trust falls, pyramid schemes of corporate hierarchy, breakout sessions about "synergy" and "leaning in." Instead, Elena had spent two days watching David charm everyone, his hand lingering on shoulders, his jokes landing perfectly, his wife waiting back in Chicago.

Her iPhone lit up with a notification. Not David. Her bank: $500 withdrawal from a Vegas ATM. Last night. While they'd all been at the welcome mixer.

Elena pulled her legs from the water and stood. She was 34, successful, and hadn't felt this hollow since grad school. The corporate pyramid they'd built felt more like a tomb.

Her phone buzzed again. David: "Can't sleep. Meet me at the pool?"

She typed: "Go to hell." Then deleted it. Typed: "I know about Vegas." Deleted that too.

Instead, she walked back to her room, packed her bag, and booked a 6 AM flight. Some pyramids were meant to collapse.