The Pyramid Scheme

Marcus stood on the forty-second floor, his forehead pressed against the cold glass, watching the city below turn to amber gridlines as dusk settled. The corporate pyramid stretched beneath him—thousands of workers supporting the few at the apex, and he'd clawed his way to the thirtieth floor only to realize the air up here was thin and lonely.

"You coming to the game?" Cheryl's voice came from behind him. She'd been his secretary three years ago, then his vice president, now something else entirely after the Christmas party last year.

"Can't," he said, turning from the window. "Richard wants me to handle the takeover meeting alone. Test my readiness for the next level."

Cheryl leaned against his desk, crossing her arms. "Your son's pitching tonight. First varsity start."

"I know." Marcus picked up his phone, scrolled through three unread texts from Jacob. "But Richard made it clear—this is the make-or-break moment. The bull market's ending, Cheryl. Everyone's scrambling for position before the correction. If I don't prove myself now..."

"Then what? You've made three million this year alone. Your son's a sophomore. This is his first start, Marcus."

He thought of the baseball glove gathering dust in his garage, the same one his father had given him thirty years ago. The promise he'd made to teach Jacob the changeup, the way his dad had taught him. The weekends he'd sacrificed for conferences, the evenings lost to "emergency" calls that were never really emergencies.

"Richard said—"

"Fuck Richard," Cheryl said softly. "You're fifty years old and still chasing approval like a junior analyst trying to impress the varsity squad. Your son's living the life you sold for this corner office with its view of buildings you'll never enter."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with three years of choices made and moments missed. Outside, the city lights flickered on, thousands of tiny pyramids of ambition burning against the dark.

Marcus set down his phone. "What time's the game?"