The Last Day

Miriam stood outside the glass doors of Jensen & Sterling, her grandmother's vintage fedora clutched in one hand. Inside, her team was already gathering for the emergency meeting she'd called—the one where she'd tell them she was walking away from fifteen years of clawing her way to the top.

A stray cat wound around her ankles, bold as anything. Not the scared, skittish strays that usually haunted the alley behind the financial district. This one had the glossy coat and deliberate movements of someone who'd learned exactly which garbage cans yielded the best scraps.

"You're braver than I am," she told the cat, setting the hat on her head. It felt like a costume she'd outgrown years ago.

Inside, Tyler was already holding court by the espresso machine, holding forth with the kind of performative outrage he'd perfected over their decade-long rivalry. The complete and utter bull streaming from his mouth about ethics and integrity would have been hilarious if it weren't so tragic. This was the same man who'd signed off on three different ethically questionable deals last quarter alone.

"Miriam!" He spotted her. "Perfect timing. We were just discussing how to handle the Morrison account."

She looked at the cat still visible through the glass, now sprawled in a patch of sunlight, utterly uninterested in the rat race happening just beyond the door.

"Actually, Tyler," she said, removing the hat and running her hand through hair she hadn't bothered to color in three months, "I'm not here for the meeting. I'm here to clean out my desk."

The cat stretched, yawned, and closed its eyes. Some things really were simpler than they seemed.