The Pyramid of Silent Regrets

Marcus stood alone in his corner office on the forty-second floor, looking down at the city below like a pharaoh surveying his kingdom. The corporate pyramid had finally granted him its apex—three promotions in five years, each one requiring a small sacrifice of his soul.

On his mahogany desk sat a single orange, growing soft in the air conditioning. Sarah had left it there the morning she walked out. 'You've become someone I don't recognize,' she'd said, her voice steady, which was worse than screaming. 'I can't love a man who measures success in stepped-on necks.'

That was six months ago.

The intercom buzzed. 'Mr. Chen? Your three o'clock is here.'

'Thank you, Beverly.' Marcus hesitated. 'Could you bring up Buster? From the pet floor?'

'Sir?'

'The therapy dog, Beverly. Please.'

He'd started requesting the company therapy dog last month—a golden retriever mix they kept in HR for stressed employees. Marcus wasn't stressed. He was something worse: hollow. The dog was the only thing in this building that didn't want anything from him.

Buster arrived with his handler, tail wagging, eyes bright with uncomplicated joy. Marcus knelt on the Persian rug—the one Sarah had picked out—and buried his face in the dog's neck, inhaling the scent of something real, something alive. For thirty seconds, he let himself imagine a different life: small house, maybe a dog of their own, Sarah peeling oranges at the kitchen sink while Sunday rain tapped against the windows.

Then his phone buzzed. Another crisis. Another opportunity to prove his worth at the top of the pyramid.

Buster's handler cleared her throat. 'Sir, we have a waiting list.'

Marcus stood, knees clicking. He picked up the softening orange from his desk and placed it in his pocket—a small, rotting reminder of what he'd traded for this view.

'Of course,' he said. 'Thank you for coming.'

After the door clicked shut, Marcus returned to his window. The city lights were beginning to flicker on below, thousands of tiny lives he'd never touch. He peeled the orange, his fingers sinking into overripe flesh, and wondered if there was still time to climb back down.