The Glass Pyramid

The corporate pyramid rose forty floors above Seattle, its glass facade reflecting Elena's exhausted face at 7 PM. She'd spent two decades climbing it—step by ruthless step—watching colleagues fall like dominoes. Her ex-husband Mark had been a dog: loyal, eager, desperate to please, until she'd grown bored and discarded him. Three years later, he was happily remarried to someone who appreciated that kind of devotion.

Her cat waited at home, as cats do—indifferent, inscrutable, landing on her feet regardless of what life threw at her. Elena envied that. At 45, she'd finally reached the pyramid's apex: corner office, seven-figure salary, nobody to call but her mother asking why she wasn't a grandmother yet.

The new junior analyst, Caleb, reminded her of Mark. Same eager eyes, same puppy-like enthusiasm. He brought her coffee, remembered how she took it, stayed late just to be near her. She should have felt powerful. Instead, she felt hollow.

"You remind me of someone," she told him one evening, when they were the only two left on the floor.

He brightened. "Good, I hope."

She studied him—really looked at him—and saw the young man she'd divorced without a second thought. The dog she'd kicked because she'd been too busy climbing.

"No," she said, setting down the coffee he'd brought perfectly made. "Not good."

That night, she let her cat sleep beside her—something the animal rarely allowed. The pyramid would still be there tomorrow. For the first time in twenty years, Elena wasn't sure she would be.