There was something so uniquely stressful about the first few months at a new job, and Anne Neuman felt every one of her four weeks of infancy in each step back to the empty elevator lobby. The word “probation” loomed large above her head, trying to balance being a proactive forward-thinking leader, fitting into the very team she was supposed to lead, and successfully doing the host of other duties she couldn’t put a name to. It tightened the muscles in her shoulders, and chewed up the nerves in her stomach just enough to affect her appetite some days. She fantasized about trading the fluorescent lights and gray walls of corporate America for a short and uneventful evening in her own space, with its earth tones, built-in bookshelves and thriving tropical plants. Awaiting her at home was a really thick burrito and a carton of Crumbs Along the Mohawk. Then she’d end the evening with her book, giving herself a generous glass of strawberry wine and an orgasm, and slip into a mediocre night’s sleep.

It was close, yet so far away.

Like the elevator, call button blazing, humming lightly with its LED numbers slowly ticking lower.

Nearly 7:15 on a warm spring Monday, it was hardly a surprise she was waiting alone. Everybody else had long since gone home, and while she wasn’t thrilled about it, she was putting in the extra hours to hopefully get noticed just enough to make it through the trial period with a good performance review. It had been a nerve-eating switch, but she'd left many years of insurance marketing—underpaid and under stimulating and morally icky—in search of something she could align herself with; that she could inspire herself with. Evidently, her interview a few months ago with Hudson Gateway Energy Solutions—HuGES, as it was known in the industry—had gone well enough in both directions that the next chapter of her life would be in the energy sector.

In many ways, HuGES had met her alignment. It was a company that paid exceptionally well and had a stellar benefits package, with relatively low turnover and a good rating on GlassDoor—though she was cynically skeptical about that one. And at least at surface-level, it had a mission statement she wouldn’t feel slimy about earning a paycheck from.

During that day’s scrum meeting, the marketing team had piled into the conference room, groggy and slightly bitter like everyone is on a Monday morning. The window shades had been pulled down halfway, and the whiteboard affixed to the wall showed scars of past brainstorming sessions and collaborations—ideas in old dry erase markers unable to be scrubbed away, but even more ideas that were lost to the swipe of someone’s hand.

Or axed by an email.

Much to her dismay, Anne’s supervisor Charlie was only interested in the same recycled ideas she’d seen time and again—in every industry. Worse still, he only cared when they came from his mouth, most often by way of personalityless emails with ominous ellipses and arbitrary passive aggression.

In the conference room, Evie, her Art Director, had sat to Anne’s left. Carrie, another graphic designer, took the one on her right. Her thirteen other colleagues filled in the empty seats.

Anne had taken another sip from the iced coffee she’d bought from the cafe on the ground floor—appropriately called The Grounds Floor—condensation already pooling at the base of the cup. Recalling the key performance indicators her data analyst Quinn had brought her the week before, she officially initiated the work day.

“Here’s the deal: Our customer service surveys don’t look so hot. We need a new campaign to show customers that we actually care. Start small and test local. I’m thinking of billboards and social media to start.”

“On it,” Izzie, her media buyer, said. “I think we should start by grabbing a digital one on I-90, the one right outside on 787, and maybe one by Kingston.”

“And I’m thinking we should have a full spread in AARP,” Evie cut in, her sarcasm hard to miss—tired of the same shit every day—so much so that she’d designed an emoji perfectly encapsulating what it felt to scream into a void. “After all, that's apparently the only demographic we’re allowed to advertise to.”

The team laughed, but it wasn’t a bad idea either.

Grievances aside, the team had dived right in, and before long the whiteboard was covered in new scribbles, taglines, and ambitious-and-likely-to-be-shot-down ideas. Anne stepped back to absorb the wall of text, the strategy piecing itself together in her head. 

“Let’s start with customer testimonials,” Anne instructed. “Get those out on the billboards, then we'll do a social campaign first. Quinn—you’re on testimonials. Ninety days’ worth, 3-stars and up. Keep it fresh, nothing dated. Pass it off to Evie in a Word doc when you’re done.”

Anne gestured to Evie. “Until then, build some shells for socials, and prioritize billboards once you’ve got usable content. Ollie and Carrie stay on your current design projects until the testimonials are secured, then one of you can take over the social graphics.”

Every day, Anne wanted her team to feel inspired and empowered. She wanted them to create something they could feel proud of; something with life. 

And every day, she saw how she was just another person in the line to disappoint them, apologetically relaying Charlie’s criticisms of their work; every exciting solution laid upon the chopping block, further whittled away until it looked like every other ancestral piece of uninspired collateral. Her malcontented team shared the frustration—more so; they’d been here longer. But she had to bear the brunt of it, alone. 

And so, in lieu of spearheading progressive marketing tactics as she’d naively hoped to be when she started, Anne felt her job had been already reduced to reading emails, delegating the content of said emails, taking video calls with third party vendors, and reviewing color coded spreadsheets. Perhaps that’s all it would ever be. And that was fine, she supposed. At least this time she would drudge ahead adequately paid and understimulated.

She couldn’t wait to be clear of the excruciating management training videos. 

Hungry and tired, she impatiently tapped her foot, going through the motions on her phone to put in a pick-up order for her burrito.

Outside, the glass tower caught the last of the Monday sunset—river and skyline blurred in pastel reflections.

HuGES, with some controversy, had torn down an old beloved asbestos-stuffed eyesore, erecting Beverwijck Tower in its place. The sixty-story glass tower capped by HuGES rose over a reflecting pool and lush manicured gardens that gave the public-access grounds a veneer of tranquility.

The building design in and of itself was beautiful. It was a sculptural thing that felt nostalgic in the way it was a sibling to the rigid brutalist towers of the Plaza, but was also clearly made in the vision of a more modern aesthetic. It had unfavorably altered the skyline in a significant way, and now she was forced to see the building not only from most vantage points, but  to be permanently reminded of it, visible from her bedroom window.

Anne glanced down into the pool, where the orange office lights glimmered against the last hues of daylight.

As the silver elevator doors opened with a soft whoosh, she slipped her phone into her bag and stepped inside, allowing her newly-calibrated autopilot to guide her movements. She pressed “P2” for Parking Level 2, not noticing that the button blazed red back at her—already illuminated. She froze momentarily, the routine already disturbed by redundancy. 

The doors rattled closed, sealing her into the small space. The air felt denser—charged with a silent presence she only noticed when the machinery began to hum again. The shift in the air alerted her to another person’s breath and the faint aroma of cologne. She turned, and saw he stood in the corner, nearly absorbing the dark blue backdrop of glass and sky. His suit matched so closely, he seemed to melt into the frame. Tall, lean, mid-to-late thirties—handsome. The kind of man you didn't just see so much as feel.

Subtle unease niggled at her—he looked  important. Finance maybe?

The stranger had yet to acknowledge her, engrossed in his own phone, his own brand of autopilot engaged. His fingers moved deftly across the screen, the rose gold metal—matched by his watch—reflecting the soft white of the overhead lights.

Finally, he glanced up. At first his gaze glazed past her, looking out the windows at the river to the east. Then, it swiveled back, meeting hers in a brief moment of connection—as if he had heard her mind considering her own safety.

It felt like the elevator was taking its sweet time to do the only thing it was built to do, and Anne wondered if her brain was moving fast, or if time had painstakingly slowed to a glacial crawl.

She shifted, her curiosity fighting for purchase over her apprehension. With his gaze now fixed on her and her alone, his presence in this confined space was undeniably compelling, manifesting its own inexplicable gravity. Maybe it was those same eyes—kind ones—that mirrored his bespoke suit, or the way that suit implied such a different lifestyle than her own dark blue jeans—slightly frayed at the ankles and pulled at the seams. Maybe it was as simple as having a weirdly surreal awareness of her place in this moment, about to find out just the kind of man he was. 

 He offered a polite smile. And while it did little to immediately dispel the way he intimidated her, there was a distance in it that eased her nerves. He was naturally good looking with symmetrical, sharp features set in a semi-permanent serious expression. He appeared to appraise her as he slid his phone into his pocket, crossing his arms.

With a slow exhale, “We work a little harder, but it never is enough.” His baritone split the silence—rich, confident, authoritative, curious. “Late day for you, too?”

The greeting was harmless enough, but it pried at her exhaustion, stirring questions she didn’t want to answer. 

The audacity of man.

She nodded in response. She hesitated before putting a voice to her response, caught between the professionalism expected of her in the tower, her patience, and her desire to get herself out of the elevator as soon as possible.

“Yeah,” she managed, more curtly than intended. “It’s been a long one. Though by the way you’re dressed, it looks like yours is probably far from over.”

He looked down at his outfit and shrugged. Finally, the elevator began its descent towards the parking garage, the soft hum of it sliding down the shaft an eerie soundtrack to the awkward exchange.

The stranger leaned back against the glass and chrome wall. He looked at her with an intensity that continued to both unnerve her and intrigued her.

“New around here?” he inquired, voice dipped in curiosity. “Haven’t seen your face before.”

Anne nodded, caution coating her smile. She stepped back into the corner of the car, even though there was nowhere for her to go. She crossed her arms. “I work at HuGES. Corporate admin. Top ten floors and all that—I’m just on the bottom.” She laughed gently. “I admittedly have no clue what happens on the other nine. I’ve only been with HuGES for a few weeks now. Just settling in, getting the lay of the land.”

“Marketing, right? That’s your floor.” He lifted his eyebrows and tilted his head in the direction of the floors above.

His statement—casually delivered—made Anne stiffen. The knowledge of exactly which floor held marketing was unsettling. She smiled amicably, hoping to keep the fact that her senses were on high alert on the down low.

“Domestic Marketing Manager,” she replied without hesitation—then admonished herself for her carelessness. “International Marketing is in London, as far as I understand it.”

He moved his head in a way that might have been a nod.

The elevator’s descent felt like an eternity—40 floors of small talk still to survive. The machinery underscored their conversation, but as their exchange continued, Anne found his ability to put her at ease was both unexpected and comforting—a departure from her usual interactions with strange men in elevators.

His presence felt harmless.

“Disregard the company as a whole,” he began. “How’s your experience marketing the company?”

“That’s a big question,” she said with a shallow laugh. “Who’s asking?”

The only response he offered was a disarming smile and the tap of his finger against his elbow.

Anne considered her response for a moment, settling on something diplomatic. “It’s been a challenging but rewarding experience. I’m learning a lot about the industry. The team is great; I’m never not entertained, and they are all very good at their jobs. I think it has as much to do with their different personalities and chaotic alignment—”

He laughed, a sound warm and pleasant, but undeniably distant.

She smiled as she continued. “—as it does their work ethic and abilities. The marketing team is a… wild group of great people. That’s for sure.”

He chuckled softly again, a faint twinkle in his eyes. “That’s good to hear. Talent’s wasted without camaraderie. A healthy team can do more for a company than any board directive—though don’t tell my board I said that.”

Anne nodded in agreement, appreciating the sentiment. She sought the safest lines of dialogue to offer in response.

Buzz words… buzz words… What would a suit like him want to hear?

“Yes, a team that gets along well is an essential ingredient for growth and innovation,” she finally said, satisfied with her answer.

His fingers tapped a few times, and a conspiratorial smirk crossed his face as he scanned hers, privy to his own joke. He huffed lightly. “But let’s cut the corporate small-talk bullshit. What would you change, no filters? You’re a new face, you have new ideas.”

The question made her pause, and not for lack of content; it was the way her brain was desperate to answer, but she fought the compulsion.

A thought nagged at her—was he from HR? Or Legal? His polished appearance and pointed questions screamed upper management or administration, but his face wasn’t familiar—nobody in HR she’d already met. She desperately wished she could conjure up the floor map and remember which HuGES offices were where.

“Oh, I don’t think I—”

“Come on,” he interjected with a chuckle—conversational. “Indulge me. What would you try differently—no marketing constraints?”

That pointedly bold question that somehow didn’t seem loaded.

“I’m always interested in how others dissect their everyday world.”

He meant it; she heard it in the sincerity of his voice.

She thought for a moment before tentatively offering him an answer. “A couple of things. We should drop ‘Energy Solutions’ from the brand name. It’s too wordy.”

His mouth twitched—a momentary smirk. 

“The brand needs a complete refresh,” she suggested, firmly.

The elevator bell chimed. His left eyebrow quirked.

“It’s boring and long overdue. I think our approach is too stale. I think in today’s environment, it’s important for our brand language and design to be a chameleon. It’s not a perfect example, but look at Tampa International Airport. You can have a personality and be in a heavily-regulated industry. They sometimes have their giant flamingo take over. It’s charming.”

The doors slid open, admitting another passenger. He nodded politely at both of them before retreating into silence. The suit didn’t take his eyes off Anne. “Unpack that.”

“Connection is the tool nobody here knows how to use. Our language is human, but it’s stiff—too corporate, too impersonal. Fine if your customer base is retirees who gripe on NextDoor. Not fine if you want anyone else.”

His laugh was short, but authentic.

“It doesn’t resonate with people,” she continued. “People change. Technology changes. Trends and language change.”

She looked him head on, and spoke assuredly. “We need to.”

There was a beat, then he nodded, interested.

“Go on.”

“If we cannot connect, we cannot communicate. We need a logo that actually connects—something with life, with a future. New language, new approach. Right now, it’s just info dumps and a logo my designer swears she can’t even work with. The safe, legacy brand is what works for upstairs. To the rest of us? It’s lifeless,” she continued.

“It’s lifeless,” the stranger repeated, turning the words over in his mouth.

 “Why stray from the tried and true?” she posed, only to answer herself. “Nobody wants to engage with it. Me included—the analytics prove it. But the President of Marketing? Upstairs? They don’t want to take risks.”

“That’s so.”

Anne wasn’t sure if his response was a question or a statement.

The elevator paused again, and the second man stepped out of the car with a nearly inaudible, “Have a good night.”

“Be a chameleon, remember? One size doesn’t fit all, but the C-suite keeps pretending it does. I trust my team, but I can’t let them plead their case. I’m just the handler, keeping the plates spinning while the bigger cogs grind above me.”

“Why don’t you let them plead their case?”

“I’m too many steps from the top. My supervisor’s close enough, but he won’t listen—let alone push it higher. I work with what I’ve got, but I’ve gleaned that I’ll be forever cut off at the legs because the person above me doesn’t think it’s worth the time or effort to try. Or lacks the spine to.”

It came out more cynical and bitter than intended, but Anne knew precisely how sour it did sound.

“The executives are out of touch. Rigid structures stifle creativity, and they don’t even see it.”

“Wow, tell me how you really feel,” he laughed—faraway, but not unkind. Empathetic. “Sorry, I don’t mean to laugh.”

She shrugged with a chuckle of her own. “Yeah, well, it’s 7:15 on a Monday. I’m hangry, but luckily there’s a Chippies on the way home.”

Her laugh pressed harder, easier.

“I’ll give you that,” he agreed with a knowing smile. “Those burritos are hard to argue with.”

At last, the doors opened on P2. The stranger gestured her out, and their conversation broke on a natural pause.

“I’m this way,” Anne said, scrambling to fill the silence. She gestured in the direction of her car, a dark gray sedan at the end of the row for HuGES management.

A reminder itched at her brain. “You were on the elevator before me. You’re HuGES. Legal or something?” she said, hopeful she sounded more unconcerned than she felt.

“Or something,” he said smoothly, pulling his keys from his pocket. The car beside them chirped to life, parked beneath a sign: Reserved for HuGES CEO.

Terror dropped heavy into her stomach.

She’d just complained about his decisions to the very man who signed her paychecks. His expression brimmed with amusement; hers with embarrassment.

Something clicked into place.

“A healthy team can do more for a company than any board directive—though don’t tell my board I said that.”

“My board.”

Fuck.

He extended a hand. “Damien Wilson. CEO.” His eyes locked with hers—two shades of blue, one not quite fixing on her.

“And founder,” Mr. Wilson added as an afterthought. “Word of advice: you should probably ask someone if ‘they’re from Legal’—or any other kind of upper management, really—before you go on a rant next time. Not exactly the wisest course of action I’ve ever encountered.”

He laughed gently.

Her mind was screaming “PROBATION!”

She found the capacity for a smile, hoping it hid her panic. “Anne Neuman,” she replied, her voice steady but thoughts racing.

“Well, Anne Neuman, you’ve given me a lot to contemplate. We don’t want to appear lifeless.”

“Sorry,” she said, incapable of conjuring anything better, the flush still holding heat under her skin.

“No need to apologize. Takes more than that for a write-up. Besides, I asked for your candor.” His eyes—eye?—were mischievous. “CEO doesn’t make me a specialist on everything. That’s why I hire them.”

The car, a long silver beast, looked like it ate the cost of her home for breakfast. The driver’s side door lifted upward with a metallic whisper, more like a breeze than a hinge. Mr. Wilson sat and started the engine. It roared, reverberating around the underground concrete echo chamber. He pulled the door shut, and Anne began to walk towards her car. The window whirred as he rolled it down.

“Hey, Anne,” he said, and she turned to face him again.

“Uh, yes, Mr. Wilson?”

He winked. “Some of us already know Charlie lacks novelty—we just don’t expect you to say it out loud. Make me a proposal. If you sell me, then you can pitch it upstairs officially.”

Anne nodded once, and he began to pull out of the parking space. She stepped aside, looking over at him once he had pulled out.

“By the way—call me Damien.” His eyes narrowed playfully. “After that little elevator pitch, we’re bound to spend more time together.”

Anne crossed her arms, and he looked back at her smugly.

Then Damien drove off, calling “I’ll email you!” into his tailwind, allowing her no time to get another word in.

The car's vanity plate caught her eye as he pulled out—WILSN, and something else lost to the distance—before he turned the corner and was gone. As the garage once again returned to silence, Anne’s mind filled it with one thought:

Oh, this’ll end well.