The Corporate Pyramid

Marcus stood before the floor-to-ceiling window on the 47th floor, his reflection superimposed over the city grid below. Somewhere down there, his daughter was eating breakfast—probably something with spinach, because that's what responsible parents fed their children now. Up here, he'd been subsisting on vending machine oranges and coffee for three days.

The acquisition. That's what they called it. Marcus called it a slow-motion train wreck he'd been paid to orchestrate. His phone buzzed. Another escalation from the Cairo office.

"You're the fixer, Marcus," Chen had said during his performance review, gesturing at the organizational chart that looked suspiciously like a pyramid scheme if you squinted. "We need you to wear multiple hats on this one."

Marcus had five hats now. Negotiator. Termination specialist. Cultural liaison. Crisis management. Whatever else they needed at 3 AM when international time zones collided.

He watched an orange sunrise bleed into the smog. Tomorrow he'd fly to Egypt to break the news to the archaeologists—the government was selling their excavation site to a luxury hotel chain. Some things were literally priceless, until someone put a price on them.

His daughter had sent him a photo yesterday: her school project, a sugar-cube pyramid with a tiny plastic camel. "Daddy's work," she'd labeled it. The irony tasted bitter.

Marcus picked up the phone. The corporate pyramid would claim another victim today. But first, he'd call his daughter. Ask about her day. Maybe suggest they cook something real together this weekend—something with spinach, something that wouldn't fit in a vending machine.

Some pyramids were built to last. Others were just waiting for the right earthquake.