Chapter 3 - The First Day on the 38th Floor
At seven-forty-five the next morning, I stood near the glass elevators of the executive suite, holding a cup of black coffee. The sun had finally broken through the storm clouds, washing the city in pale, crisp autumn light.
The elevator doors chimed and slid open.
Marisol stepped out. She wore a simple, dark navy pantsuit—clearly bought from a discount department store years ago, but impeccably pressed. Her hair was pulled back into a neat, severe bun. Beside her walked Renata, carrying a small blue backpack.
My vice president of operations, Greg Campbell, was already standing near the reception desk, reviewing a stack of tenant lease renewals. He looked up, his manicured eyebrows furrowing as his gaze swept over Marisol's worn shoes and the child standing beside her.
"Can I help you?" Campbell asked, his tone dripping with polished condescension. "Deliveries go through the freight elevator in the basement. Visitors require a security badge."
"She doesn't need a badge, Greg," I said, stepping forward.
Campbell turned, instantly morphing his sneer into an obsequious smile. "Arthur! Good morning. I was just reviewing the third-quarter projections for the rail yard proposal. Is there something wrong?"
"This is Marisol Duarte," I announced. "She is joining our corporate operations team as Senior Facilities Auditor. She will have unescorted access to every mechanical room, sub-basement, and service contract in Vance Tower."
Campbell's face went completely pale, then flushed a mottled red. "Arthur, with all due respect, who is this woman? We have established hiring protocols. HR hasn't vetted her. And why is there a child in the executive suite?"
"Renata's school starts at nine," I said smoothly. "My driver will take her. As for Ms. Duarte’s qualifications, she knows our mechanical infrastructure better than you do."
Marisol didn't wait for Campbell to recover. She stepped forward, looked him directly in the eye, and spoke with absolute clarity. "Mr. Campbell, I'd like the maintenance logs for the primary chillers on forty-two, the fire suppression inspection reports from August, and the vendor invoices for Apex Environmental Services."
Campbell stiffened. His eyes darted toward me, a flash of panic hiding behind his designer spectacles. "Apex? We don't use Apex here. We use Bluebonnet Facility Solutions."
"Bluebonnet is an LLC registered to a PO Box in Delaware," Marisol said without blinking. "The principal owner is Marcus Sterling's brother-in-law. You signed their service agreement three months ago."
The silence in the marble lobby became suffocating. Two administrative assistants stopped typing. Campbell’s hands trembled slightly as he clutched his leather folder.
"Arthur, this is absurd," Campbell sputtered. "You're taking the word of a disgruntled former laborer over someone who has managed your assets for nearly a decade? Marcus Sterling is trying to sabotage our rail yard bid! This woman is probably working for him!"
"There's an easy way to verify," I said. "Marisol, take the master keys. Inspect the forty-second floor. Greg, you will accompany her."
"I have a meeting with the city zoning board—"
"Cancel it," I said coldly.
Ten minutes later, I had Thomas escort Renata downstairs to take her to school, but before she left, the little girl ran up to my desk and set down an object.
It was an origami frog made from a green sticky note.
"What is this, Renata?" I asked, bewildered.
"It brings good luck," she said matter-of-factly. "My mom says when people are scared, they yell. That man in the suit was yelling because he's scared of my mom. You keep that so you don't get scared."
She turned and marched out after Thomas, her sneakers squeaking on the polished hardwood.
I stared at the green paper frog sitting on my million-dollar mahogany desk. A sharp ache stabbed through my ribcage. Julia used to make origami animals when she was eight. She used to line them up on my home office desk while I ignored her to review spread sheets and balance sheets.
*I missed her entire childhood chasing buildings,* I thought. *And when her mother was dying of cancer, I was in Tokyo closing a debt restructuring.*
My hand moved to my desk phone. With trembling fingers, I dialed the number I knew by heart. Ten rings. Then the automated voice: *“The mailbox for Julia Vance is full and cannot accept new messages.”*
She hadn't changed the number. She just refused to hear my voice.
Before I could sink into the familiar swamp of regret, the red emergency intercom on my desk buzzed violently.
May you like
"Arthur!" It was Campbell’s voice, breathy, terrified, and distorted by echoes. "We have a situation on forty-two! The mechanical room—the main pressure valve just sheared off! It's flooding the server room ceiling!"
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