Page 38 of The Authenticity Clause
The deadline was a cold, hard fact in the swirling chaos of his thoughts. He needed a box. He looked around, his gaze unfocused. His hands felt clumsy, disconnected from his body. He fumbled with the drawers of his desk, his fingers moving with a slow, mechanical stiffness. He pulled out a half-empty packet of sticky notes, a collection of dried-up pens, a single, stray paperclip. None of these things were a box.
Someone placed a simple, brown cardboard box on his desk. He looked up. It was Maya. Her face was a blur of sympathy and heartbreak. Her eyes were shining with unshed tears.
“I’m so sorry, Leo,” she whispered, her voice thick.
Leo just shook his head, a small, jerky movement. He couldn’t speak. If he opened his mouth, he was afraid a scream would come out, a raw, ragged sound of pure agony that would never end. So he kept his lips sealed and began to pack.
Each item he placed in the box was an artifact from a life that was no longer his.
First, the lopsided plant Julian had once commented on. Its leaves were a little brown at the edges. He hadn’t watered it in a few days. He placed it carefully in the corner of the box.
Next, the collection of sketches and doodles he had pinned to the partition wall. A drawing of a coffee cup with wings. A caricature of David from marketing as a superhero. A detailed, loving sketch of a single, perfect bonsai tree he had drawn from memory. He took them down one by one, the small holes left by the pushpins looking like tiny, weeping wounds on the gray fabric wall. He stacked the papers neatly and laid them beside the plant.
Then, his collection of ridiculous mugs. The one that said “World’s Okayest Designer.” The one shaped like a cat. And finally, the one that had started it all: the sloth mug. “Let’s Hang.” He remembered Julian’s eyes crinkling at the corners when he’d first seen it. The memory was a physical blow, a punch to the gut that stole the air from his lungs. He had to lean against the desk for a moment, his vision swimming.
“Leo, do you want me to help?” Maya’s voice was a soft, worried presence beside him.
He shook his head again. This was his shame. He had to pack it up himself. He wrapped the sloth mug in a spare scarf from his bag and nested it gently in the box.
He packed his tablet, the device that held his hidden worlds, the realest part of him, the part Julian had actually seen and understood. He packed his worn copy ofThe Hidden Self, the book that had forged a connection he had mistaken for a foundation. Each item was a fresh wave of grief, a reminder of what he had built and what he had just lost.
The entire process took maybe ten minutes, but it felt like a lifetime. The office remained a library of feigned productivity. No one approached him. No one said goodbye. He was a pariah, a ghost already haunting the halls of his own spectacular failure. He had been so celebrated in this room, so praised. And now, he was being erased with a quiet, brutal efficiency that was Julian’s signature.
Finally, the desk was bare. It was just a blank, impersonal surface of wood and metal, as if he had never been there at all. The only thing left was the sleek, gray V&S laptop. Company property. Not his to take.
He looked at the box. It was a pathetic collection of trinkets, the sum total of his entire, fraudulent career. He felt a hysterical laugh bubble up in his throat and quickly swallowed it down.
“Okay,” he whispered, his voice a dry rasp. “I’m ready.”
“Do you want me to walk out with you?” Maya offered, her loyalty a small, flickering candle in the vast darkness.
“No,” he said. He had to do this alone. “But… can you tell my mom I got downsized? A corporate restructuring. Just… not this. Please.”
Maya nodded, her eyes welling up again. “Of course.” She reached out and squeezed his arm, a firm, desperate pressure. “It’s going to be okay, Leo.”
It was a kind, beautiful lie, and he loved her for it. He hoisted the box into his arms. It was heavier than he expected. He took one last look around the office, at the place that had held his highest hopes and his deepest fears. His gaze, against his will, was drawn one last time to the corner office, to the closed gray blinds. There was no movement. No sign of life. Just a cold, impenetrable wall.
He turned and started walking toward the elevators. The walk of shame. It was a hundred times worse than the first time he’d walked through this office for his interview, a nervous, hopeful fraud. Now, he was just a fraud. The hope was gone.
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime. He stepped inside, and as the doors slid shut, he was met with his own reflection in the polished steel. He looked pale, hollow-eyed, a stranger wearing his clothes. The doors closed, and the office was gone.
He rode the elevator down in silence, the box a heavy, solid weight in his arms. The lobby was empty, the afternoon sun casting long, lonely shadows across the polished floor. He walked towards the main entrance, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space.
He pushed through the heavy glass doors and stepped out onto the street. The city air was cool on his flushed cheeks. The sounds of Starling Grove—the distant traffic, the chatter of people walking by, the cry of a seagull overhead—rushed in to fill the silence. The world was still moving, impossibly, unforgivably.
He stood on the sidewalk, holding the box of his shattered life, and looked back up at the sleek, glass-and-steel tower of Vance& Sterling Creative. He could see the window of Julian’s office, a dark, blank square high above him.
He had everything, just for a moment. He had the job. He had the success. He had the man. He had a future he had never dared to dream of.
And now, he had nothing. He was back where he had started: a broke, unemployed artist. No, that wasn't right. He was worse off than when he started. Because now he knew what it felt like to be loved, and he knew what it felt like to lose it. The grief was a vast, empty ocean inside him, and he was adrift, with no land in sight.
He turned away from the building, from the ghost of the life he had almost had, and started the long walk home, the heavy box in his arms and a silence in his heart so profound he was afraid he might never hear music again.
Chapter 27: The Restoration of Order
Three weeks.
Twenty-one days. Five hundred and four hours. It had taken precisely that long for Julian to restore order.
