The Bull in the Room

The bull, mounted and stuffed, glared at Elena from across the mahogany conference table. Its glass eyes seemed to know something she didn't—something about the eighteen-hour days, the ulcer that flared whenever she ate, the way her daughter's voice had grown distant on their weekly calls.

"Ms. Chen?" The client waved a hand. "Are we settled?"

Elena's grandfather's fedora sat on the table beside her legal pads. She'd taken to wearing it to negotiations—her armor, her small rebellion against the corporate uniform that had slowly consumed her identity. The hat had belonged to a man who'd worked three jobs, who'd never owned more than he could carry, who'd died with nothing but love in his wake.

She looked at the contract. Five years of her life. Three-quarters of a million in billables. The senior partnership she'd sacrificed everything to chase, all spelled out in twelve-point font.

"Actually," she said, standing up. "I'm not sure we are."

"Excuse me?" The client's face reddened.

"I'm running," Elena said. The words felt foreign in her mouth, like a language she'd once known but forgotten. "From this. From all of it."

She left the hat on the table—she didn't need it anymore. The bull watched her walk out, and Elena thought she saw something like approval in those dead glass eyes. She stepped into the elevator, pressed the button for the lobby, and for the first time in twenty years, she didn't know where she was going.

And that was exactly the point.