Fox in the Glass Tower

Maya's palms were sweating against the cold marble of the hallway wall. She'd been running for three years—running from Gabriel, running toward him, running in circles while he dismantled everything she'd built.

"You're too emotional," he'd told her that morning, his fingers tracing her palm like he was reading her future. "That's why you'll never make partner."

The elevator dinged. She stepped inside, pressed 44.

Gabriel was waiting. His office door was open, that predatory smile already in place. The office fox—clever, adaptable, always landing on its feet while others took the fall.

"I thought we'd celebrate," he said, gesturing to the champagne. "The merger goes through tonight."

Maya's palms pressed against her skirt. "You leaked the valuation figures."

He laughed. "Prove it."

And that was the thing about Gabriel. Nothing stuck. No fingerprints, no paper trail, just his voice whispering in ears, his hand sliding palms, his suggestions that somehow always became someone else's initiative.

"Running the firm now?" he asked, pouring champagne. "Because that's what this looks like. A power play."

Maya thought about running. Leaving the firm, the city, the whole life she'd constructed around someone who saw her as nothing more than a stepping stone.

"No," she said. "Just leaving."

Gabriel's smile faltered. "Maya—"

She was already at the door. "Enjoy your merger."

She took the stairs down, thirty flights of concrete and silence. Outside, the city smelled like rain and possibility. Her palms were dry now. She wasn't running anymore—she was finally walking away.