Last Updated on September 14, 2026 by Robin Katra
The brass clasp of my leather handbag was cold against my fingers, but the lobby of Morgan Global was already warm with the dry, recycled air of the sixty-eight-story tower.
I had just paid a thirty-dollar breakfast bill at the quiet diner on Tenth Avenue, and the small paper receipt was still warm in my coat pocket.
I walked across the vast gray terrazzo floor, the scent of the lavender soap I had used that morning still lingering on my collar.
A young woman with very sharp posture and a tailored beige skirt stood directly in front of the executive elevator bank, her arm extended to block the path.
I recognized Camille Reed from the photographs on the corporate portal, though we had never stood face-to-face.
“The service entrance is around the corner on Forty-Eighth,” she said, her voice carrying a sharp, clipped tone that cut through the quiet morning murmur of the lobby.
I did not lower my handbag.
“I am here for the sixty-eighth floor,” I said, keeping my sentences quiet and measured.
“The design department interns don’t use this bank of cars,” she said, her eyes running over my dark navy wool coat with a slow, dismissive sweep.
“I am not a design intern,” I said.
“People like you use the service elevator,” she said.
She nervously touched the base of her throat as a group of senior analysts walked past, but her hand remained firmly over the glass elevator sensor.
As her arm shifted, the cuff of her silk blouse slipped back, revealing a band of bright white against her wrist.
It was a white ceramic watch, the face rimmed with a delicate ring of small, square-cut diamonds.
I twisted my gold wedding band once, slowly, as I stared at her wrist.
Only three of those watches had been imported into the Manhattan boutique that autumn, and I had spent two weeks selecting that exact model for my mother-in-law’s upcoming birthday.
“Is there a problem here, Camille?” one of the analysts asked, pausing near the security turnstiles.
“No problem, David,” Camille said, her smile appearing instantly, bright and entirely empty. “Just managing the morning flow.”
Last Updated on September 14, 2026 by Robin Katra
She turned back to me the moment the analyst moved out of range, her expression dropping instantly.
“The service doors are clearly marked,” she said.
I turned toward the gray corridor that led to the back of the building, my shoes clicking softly against the concrete.
The service elevator was waiting at the end of the hall, its steel doors scuffed with the gray marks of utility carts.
Inside, a young woman in a faded denim jacket was holding a heavy cardboard tube of blue prints.
“You must be new,” she said, her voice small and hesitant as the elevator groaned and began its slow, heavy ascent.
“It is my first morning in the building,” I said.
“I’m Jenny,” she said, shifting the weight of the prints to her other shoulder. “If you’re going up to sixty-eight, just keep your head down around Camille Reed.”
The elevator creaked as we passed the twentieth floor, the low hum of the cables vibrating through the floorboards.
“Is she always that diligent about the elevators?” I asked.
“She can get you dismissed before your lunch break,” Jenny said, looking down at her own worn leather boots. “She had a courier from the mailroom reassigned last week just because he stood too close to her desk.”
“And no one stopped her?” I asked.
“Nobody crosses her,” Jenny said. “Everyone is too afraid of losing their spot.”
The lift shuddered to a halt on forty-two, and Jenny stepped out into a hallway that smelled of stale coffee.
“Good luck up there,” she whispered before the heavy metal doors slid shut again.
I watched the floor numbers light up on the dirty plastic panel, one by one, until the elevator finally groaned to a stop at sixty-eight.
The carpeted hallway of the executive suite was silent, save for the low hum of the air system behind the drywall.
A man in a dark gray suit was standing by the reception desk, organizing a stack of corporate directories.
He adjusted his red silk tie with a quick, nervous jerk of his hand as I walked toward him.
“May I help you?” Douglas Vance asked, his voice rapid and stiff with legal jargon.
“I am here to see Alexander,” I said.
Douglas did not look at my face; his eyes were fixed on the security pass hanging from my pocket.
“This floor is restricted to executive personnel under section nine of the corporate bylaws,” he said, tapping his fingers against the polished mahogany desk.
“I am expected, Douglas,” I said.
He blinked, his hand rising to touch his tie again as he processed the sound of his own name.
“We do not allow unscheduled visitors in the inner corridor,” he said, his tone sharpening. “Please wait in the reception alcove by the west windows.”
I walked past him toward the double glass doors of the executive suite anyway.
The waiting room was silent, furnished with heavy leather armchairs and a low glass table containing three months of financial journals.
Through the glass partition, I saw Alexander standing near his desk.
He looked exactly as he had when he left our Greenwich home at six that morning, his silver hair perfectly brushed.
He looked up, saw me through the glass, and frowned.
He stepped out into the waiting area, closing the door firmly behind him to block my view of his desk.
“Evelyn,” he said, his voice carrying that polished, upper-crust Manhattan cadence. “What are you doing up here?”
“I came to see the office, Alexander,” I said.
“This isn’t the day for a visit, sweetheart,” he said, adjusting his left silver cufflink with a brief, defensive flick of his fingers.
“I wanted to see how the staff is managed,” I said.
“We have a minor personnel issue to handle before the board meeting tomorrow,” he said, his voice dropping to a smooth, quiet whisper that allowed no argument. “Please.”
