Free Sample
Preview from chapter one
The city at night was a grid of glass and phosphor. From my office on the top floor, I could see it all, sprawling before me. My office was designed for intimidation: black lacquered mahogany desk wide as a coffin lid, windows running floor-to-ceiling with the eastward glare of the river and the lesser towers, antique gunmetal lamps and a curation of corporate awards on glass shelves. The room always felt at least ten degrees colder than the rest of the building, even in summer, the chill locked in by the silent hum of the climate control. Visitors never lingered.
I sat with my back to the view, suit tailored close to my ribs and throat, a faint slick of the dry cleaner’s starch still clinging to the arms. My hair was pulled back, severe enough to make my eyes seem wider and more colorless. The paper in front of me was Marcus’s 90-day review, already annotated in a precise, looping hand. His numbers were abysmal. Not just below expectation, but a near-farcical plummet: late, unfocused, amateurish in the ways that counted. Nepotism is an accusation only if one’s blood actually delivers results.
The door opened at precisely six in the evening, after everyone else had gone home. Marcus entered, astute enough to remain silent as he crossed the room. He had grown tall, built from a version of my genes that had skipped all the grace and gone straight to mass. Shoulders hunched to minimize his frame, he hovered at the threshold with the self-awareness of an animal awaiting slaughter. I gestured, and he drifted across the rug, hands clutching at the battered briefcase he’d carried since his internship. He had dressed up: suit jacket with a faint shine at the elbows, white shirt over-bleached to a pinkish cast, tie too tight. His hair was flattened against his skull, as if he’d tried to sweat out the entire confrontation before arrival. He stopped a regulation three feet from the desk. I let him wait. The clock on the wall was analog, ticking.
“Sit.” He slid into the leather chair. It dwarfed him, as always. His knees splayed awkwardly, and I made a note of his posture for later correction. I tapped the folder once. “You know why you’re here.”
He nodded. Voice tight: “Yes.”
I let the silence expand, a technique older than either of us. He watched my hands, not my face. “You’re failing,” I said, turning the folder so he could see my notes. “On every metric. If you were anyone else, I’d have let security walk you out by now.”