The Riddle of the Corner Office

The corporate hierarchy rose like a pyramid before Sarah's eyes, each level a smaller, more exclusive plateau than the last. At forty-three, she'd climbed to the middle tier—Vice President of Brand Strategy—but the summit remained elusive.

Her boss, Marcus, sat in his corner office like an inscrutable sphinx, posing riddles no one could quite solve. "What's the one thing money can't buy but everyone sells?" he'd asked during yesterday's meeting, his eyes scanning the room like a predator counting prey.

Sarah had almost answered. She'd felt it—a moment of clarity like lightning, illuminating the hollow center of everything they did. But she'd swallowed the words instead.

Now she stood at her bathroom mirror, swallowing her daily vitamin with practiced precision. The routine was comforting in its simplicity, unlike the job that consumed her waking hours. The supplement promised energy, vitality—everything the corporate pyramid had drained from her over seventeen years.

Her phone buzzed. Marcus: another riddle meeting in ten minutes. Sarah stared at her reflection, at the lines etching themselves around her mouth, at the eyes that had seen every trick in the book and learned to perform them all.

The lightning moment returned. She understood Marcus's riddle now. The answer was sitting right there on the counter, beside her vitamin bottle.

Sarah typed her response: "Time."

Then she deleted it, grabbed her bag, and walked out the door. Some riddles weren't meant to be solved for someone else's game.