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Looking back at the panel, she realized there were fifty-one floors. “E” made fifty-two.

The humming faded as the elevator came to a stop. The doors opened to a large foyer with a receptionist at a desk straight ahead of her. Far ahead. As she stepped forward, the sound of her heels clacking on the polished marble suddenly filled the air and she realized, in this expanse of an entry, their echoing was obnoxious. She tried masking it with rapid tippy-toeing, but tripped over her own feet as she approached the desk. She caught herself and held out her hand to shake that of the woman behind the desk. The receptionist kept her hands down, but greeted her. “Good morning, Ms. Taylor. Ms. Sawyer is ready for you,” and nodded behind her towards the glass enclosed office. As she looked up, she and the no-nonsense woman in the office locked eyes. Even across the room, through walls of glass, her glare was intimidating.

Madison imagined being part of a National Geographic documentary, where the cheetah was about to tear the poor defenseless gazelle to smithereens ... that is, if the cheetah had witnessed the gazelle fumbling all over itself while desperately trying to re-posture in some lame attempt to be a worthwhile slaughter.

Rebalanced, she felt it. One of her heels was loose, torn a little from the sole. Dammit, I love these heels. She walked as quickly as possible while trying to inconspicuously keep her shoe on.

Ms. Sawyer was on the phone and looked up but didn’t otherwise acknowledge her. “All I know is if you can’t have drivers on time for your biggest client, I have ten other companies ready for the work.”

Great, Ms. Sawyer’s already upset. Madison contained her nervousness with a shy smile. The woman hung up the phone, and just pursed her lips, then gestured her fingers impatiently towards the chair, indicating Madison may sit.

She did so, but as properly and straightly as possible. She began feeling like some odd version of Alice in the hall of doors. One inhalation made her breasts bigger while the next one made her blazer smaller. With every breath, she just wanted this day to be over already.

“GINA SAWYER” was engraved on an intricate crystal name-plate, centrally displayed on her cherry-wood desk. But little else. Only a Louis-Vuitton planner, a space-aged monitor, and a single gold pen that she fidgeted with as she glared at her computer screen. She seemed to roll her eyes as her bored sing-songy voice started. “So, why do you want to work at Drake Global Industries?”

Madison began gushing about everything she’d read in the past week and rattled off market share statistics while raving about how they’d paved the path for technological innovations in global telecommunications. Truth be told, last week she had no idea what that meant, but thanks to the internet and the constant publicity of this over-exposed company, she was on her game.

As if giving a shareholder’s speech, she started down the path of how D.G.I. was postured for enterprising leaps in the next era, when she was abruptly cut off.

“Look, cut the crap. What do you really want?” Hearing such an unexpectedly confrontational tone, Madison tried stammering out an answer, but her voice gave out. Her sudden speechlessness seemed to irritate Gina even more. She whipped to her monitor and quickly entered a few keystrokes beneath her desk. “Obviously I didn’t clear you for this interview, and my former assistant seems to have gotten the last laugh after all.” She scrutinized the screen.

“Background investigation. Madison Taylor. Temping for the last year here and there. Barely any college. And, oh, yes, all the while moonlighting as a waitress in the evenings, which I’m assuming is to make whatever ends you have meet.”

A flush overcame her face, the discovery making Madison feel exposed and embarrassed. Her chance to break into the big leagues had been a bit too good to be true. Gina’s eyes met Madison’s gaze. Madison hated how she could feel her tears welling up. “Look, it’s not the lack of experience, though, that doesn’t help. And as impressive as the long list of minimum wage jobs are, that’s not what’s really keeping us from making a love connection today. Oh, and it’s not even, well, all this,” she gestured grandly at her blazer and camisole. “It’s the glorious combination of all of it wrapped up in an obvious morning-after of an overindulgent night-into-day drinking event. As much as I hate goodbyes, I’m afraid this is the end of the road.” She went back to looking at her screen, dismissive without saying another word.

Madison wiped a few determined tears from her eyes and stood. “Sorry to have wasted your time,” her voice trembled out. She took a few steps away, then paused, the feelings of exposure and embarrassment turning to fury. She’d already said sorry to the idiot who’d helped her blow this interview, and now she’d apologized to the high and mighty Gina Sawyer? For what? A high work ethic and getting body-slammed by a Neanderthal. What the hell did she have to be sorry for?

She spun around, but Gina hadn’t moved. The continuous disregard and inability to even acknowledge Madison was just the tipping point to make her blood boil over. She cleared her throat, keeping the tears from pouring out.

“Hey, you know what?” She miserably attempted to steady her voice. “I’m not sorry for anything except wasting my time coming here. You people think you can look down on all the hard workers who make your day better no matter how crappy our day is going. And, by the way, you missed a few jobs on that background investigation. I worked at Starbucks to pay for those college classes, making hot Venti latte’s for cold people like you. And I cleaned bathrooms and scrubbed toilets at a few restaurants you’ve probably frequented, so I’m used to your shit.” She whipped out her silk blouse from her purse, waving it like the goddamned American flag.

“Oh, and the reason I look and smell like thiiissss,” she said, wildly motioning her hands around her cleavage, “is that another jack-hole that works in this building crashed into me on my way in, dousing my beautiful, clearance-Chanel, white blouse with a full-on hit of his Kentucky coffee. So, I’m not sorry for any of it. I’m just sorry I wasted my time coming uptown and up fifty-two floors only to break my heel, when I should have shoved it up your executive butt.” She about-faced and headed out. As Gina’s phone buzzed, Madison’s victory faded. It dawned on her that while she was giving her version of the preamble to the US Constitution, Gina was probably IM-ing security. She nervously quickened her wobbly pace to the elevator.

“MS. TAYLOR,” Gina called out. Oh, God, she’s going to tell me there are cops waiting for me in the lobby and probably threaten me with jail, and will top it off with that smug smirk. Madison pretended not to hear her and repeatedly hit the elevator button marked “G,” but the elevator refused to move. Gina raced out of her office and yelled after her, “Hey!”

Why won’t the door close?Oh, the access key. Madison feverishly waved it and “G” lit up. The car fell swiftly, and the lobby arrived in no time. Relief poured over her when the doors opened. She stepped out and started towards the exit, when again she heard “Ms. Taylor!” Gina was suddenly in the lobby, standing next to Fife. How the hell did she get there so fast?

She laser-focused on the exit. As coolly as her wobbly heel would let her, she made a beeline for the door. Steps away from freedom, that loose little heel betrayed her, landing her squarely on her greatest asset, right in the middle of the lobby.

Gina and Fife raced over, looking down on her. Her epic fail of an escape seemed to be the icing on their cake. “Look, I’m leaving, you don’t need security.” Fife reached down, lifting her up like a rag doll, and placing her dead center in front of Gina. Gina grabbed her hand, shaking it vigorously.

“Welcome to D.G.I., Ms. Taylor,” Her confused look cued Gina to lean in. “You have the job.” Deputy Fife affirmed her new corporate status with a wink.

3

“Where the fuck is my car?” Alex Drake, the self-made billionaire and self-proclaimed global genius, hated being late almost as much as he hated being poor. Though neither compared to how much he loathed being vulnerable, and the overwhelming heartbeat pounding in his ears was an inescapable reminder. He checked his vintage Omega Speedmaster.

Technically, he wasn’t late. He was early. But his increased irritation and edginess were all too familiar, sweeping over him like cloud shadows as they overtake the sky. An episode was approaching, and faster than usual. His precautionary laced-coffee wasn’t cutting it, and he couldn’t wait around for a car. He hit the third “favorite” on his phone. “If I have a driver on call 24/7, then why the hell am I standing on the street corner like an asshole? New driver! Now!” His pacing erupted in a hasty turn, where he collided full-bodied into someone.

God dammit. “Watch where you’re going.” He barely heard the “sorry” amongst the intolerable loudness of the busy street. He needed to get away. He headed into the building. His building. The testament to his motherfucking empire. And, today, his sanctuary.

There were few in his inner circle, ones who knew the real Alex Drake. The ones who knew him as A.J., the man he’d been when D.G.I. was just a pipe-dream called Drake Cable & Comm, a garage start-up company taking jobs in high-risk areas of the globe for premium rates and quick cash. That path had led him to his highest financial gains and his greatest personal loss. He myopically focused on the profits and deals, while steadfastly burying his hopes for healing and redemption. For happiness. Or love.

He’d tried climbing to the top without annihilating others, but, if Alex Drake was anything, he was a fast learner. Eleven years ago, his path had converged at the intersection of crush or be crushed. Even if the crushing was just the weight of the world around him, he’d hardened his armor for the sake of self-preservation. But the problem was, he’d become the only inmate of his custom designed prison, and no matter how gilded, all prisons were, ultimately, lonely.

“Good morning, Mr. Drake,” filled the air from the usual lobby choir. His determined stride was brisk, though he refrained from running. He headed for his private elevator behind the security desk, which blended seamlessly into the wall. He swiped his access card, embossed in platinum with the letters A.D. Once on the fifty-second floor, he entered a lavish penthouse office overlooking Central Park. The view instantly captured and calmed him, leading him away from the heavy toll and endless anxiety that empire-building and burying a past tended to bring. After a few meditative breaths, he was better able to deal with the day ahead. Scrolling through his phone again, he clicked a higher-ranking favorite.

“Paco. You need to be at a meeting for me. You know them. Twenty minutes. The usual place.”

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