Part 1
May 18th, 60th Floor, 7:10 PM
Everyone hated Mondays, and Damien was no exception. Mondays were chock full of catching up on everything that happened over the weekend—budgets, deviations, hiccups, updates, board meetings, banality.
But the 3:00 PM Eastern call with West Coast Legal was the one that really added pressure to the ache behind the eye, since it was now well past 3:00 PM Pacific. Evidently, no one wanted to sign off on the microgrid software deal unless the indemnity clauses were rewritten in six different ways, all equally meaningless.
He hadn’t planned to be in the office this late. But plans didn’t mean much when fifteen lawyers couldn’t define the word “exclusive.”
He sighed as one of the associates started reciting boilerplate. Again.
A soft knock interrupted the loop.
Cathy poked her head in, eyebrows raised.
He muted the call. “Why the hell are you still here? Go home.”
“I had the fire extinguisher at the ready. Waiting to see if you would self-destruct.”
“It’s honestly unbelievable,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, sitting back in his chair with more forceful exasperation than he intended. “More than three hours later, and we’re still litigating synonyms.”
“Sounds tiring.”
“Exhausting, even.”
“You think you’re clever,” she said with a chuckle. “Need anything before I head out?”
“A new legal team. And a flamethrower.”
“I believe HR has to authorize both of those things.”
He pinched his nose again, muttering, “Fuck” under his breath.
Cathy softened. “I’ll leave you to it, Damien,” she said gently. “Just don’t stay buried in here too long. There’s a whole world happening without you.”
“Hm,” he agreed. “Hopefully they’ll let me go before the solstice. I’ll adjourn this in a few. Nothing is getting resolved tonight.”
She gave him a motherly smile and slipped out, her heels fading down the hallway. The call droned on. He let it continue for another insufferable stretch before finally unmuting.
“Alright, folks,” he said during a blessed lull, addressing the sea of thumbnail faces he was tired of seeing. “Let’s call it a night. If I have to hear the term mutual indemnification one more time, I’m going to implode. I’ll send out an email tomorrow morning to find a time to continue with negotiations this week. Let’s aim for Wednesday, if at all possible. I don’t want to put this off too long.”
There was a chorus of halfhearted sign-offs and awkward thank-yous. A moment later, the screen was blank.
Silence. Finally.
He shut the laptop with satisfying finality and sat back, letting the quiet soak in. Far below, he could hear the hum of I-787, more suggestion than sound.
He glanced at his watch—7:08. Dinner time.
He pocketed his keys and spent thirty seconds tidying up—paper aligned, pen uncapped and recapped, mug rinsed and set to dry—then locked his office behind him. The hallway was hushed and mostly empty now—save for one of the custodial staff already sweeping the floors, one earbud standing out against his dark skin like a lighthouse.
“Hey, have a good night, Bill. You’re doing a great job.”
The man brightened. “You too, Mr. Wilson.”
And then the quiet resumed. Just Damien’s heels on the floor tiles and the swish of the broom. It was a stillness he always enjoyed. The tower at rest.
He made his way to the elevator, pressed the call button, and waited. When the doors opened two minutes later, he stepped inside and took his usual place in the rear corner, back against golden chrome and glass. His phone came out automatically.
Still open on his screen: an email from Charlie.
Subject: Re: Campaign Risk Exposure
He skimmed the first paragraph and rolled his eyes. Passive-aggressive, vaguely accusatory, and so risk-averse it could’ve been written by a seatbelt.
“While I understand the Domestic Marketing Manager’s desire for more ‘youthful’ phrasing, I I know the tone will dilute our positioning. Humor—especially irony—can be risky in regulated markets.”
He didn’t notice the elevator stop.
He was still reading Charlie’s email for the third time, as if repetition might clarify the point—though the only thing it clarified was that Charlie could write five paragraphs and say nothing of substance. Damien’s thumb flicked down the screen, jaw tensing slightly.
“...the phrasing will alienate customers who find humor and memes unprofessional. I won’t entertain the suggestion…”
We have fiscal growth. Why change? Then again, God forbid we sound human.
The elevator doors slid shut again.
Only then did he register a change in the air—denser, like the space had subtly narrowed. The scent of something faintly floral—lilac?—drifted in, unfamiliar. He didn’t look up immediately. Instead, he finished reading the sentence, then tapped the back button to clear the screen.
When he finally glanced up, it was out of instinct, not intention—first past her, then toward the windows, where the last remnants of sunset were dissolving into indigo. Reflexively, his gaze returned to center.
And there she was.
Someone he hadn’t seen before. Standing still, with a tension in her shoulders he’d learned to recognize across conference rooms and board meetings—a professional woman holding her breath. Their eyes met for a brief moment. A flicker of recognition, but not of who. Just that—someone else was here now.
He offered a polite, reflexive smile—habit more than warmth. His eyes traced her. She had to be only a few years his junior. Practical shoes, dark jeans, an equally-practical blouse—function, not fashion, but also not unattractive. Tan purse at her hip, the strap tightly gripped in one hand. The other toyed with a silver starfish strung around her neck. It sat at the hollow of her neck—elegant. A flash of silver against the polished golden cast—a quiet imprint, already pressing itself into his memory.
The elevator started to move. He looked at the floor counter—50.
“Late day at the office for you too?” he asked.
She shifted, stepping back more into her side of the elevator, but offered him a solitary nod before speaking. “Yes, it’s been a long one.” Her voice was clipped. “Though, by the way you’re dressed, it looks like yours is probably far from over.”
She wasn’t wrong. Probably.
He shrugged. “New around here? I haven’t seen your face before.”
She gave a slow nod, and her words were clearly being considered as she spoke them—but there was a phantom smile on her lips. “Yes… I work at Hudson Gateway as part of corporate administration. Top 10 floors of them and all that. I’m just on the… bottom.”
She laughed. It seemed distant.
She doesn’t know who I am.
“I’ve admittedly no idea what happens on the other 20 floors. I’ve only been with HuGES for a few weeks now—”
Oh. And she came from… What’s on 50? Customer Service and… Marketing? She’s radiates marketing.
“—and getting the lay of the land.”
Damien gestured up the elevator shaft with his chin. “Marketing, right?”
She gave a tight-lipped smile. “That’s right. I’m the Domestic Marketing Manager. International—”
Oh. Plot twist.
He nodded, trying to parse together the question he wanted to ask. He turned more towards her. “How’s your experience marketing the company so far? How are you finding it?”
Another laugh—a little easier. “That’s a big question. Who’s asking?”
He smiled again—gentle curiosity.
“Well,” she began with a breath. “It’s been a challenging but truly rewarding experience. The team is great, and I’m learning a lot. I’m never not entertained, and they all seem to be very good at their jobs.”
Love to hear it.
“I think it has as much to do with their differing personalities and chaotic alignment—”
I see you, quiet nerd, he thought through the chuckle that left his chest.
“—as it does their work ethic and abilities. The marketing team is a… wild group of great people, that’s for sure.”
“That’s great to hear, honestly. I’ve always believed in the importance of fostering talent within my company and camaraderie between colleagues. A healthy working environment should be a priority for every business.”
“Yes. A team that gets along well is what creates growth and innovation.”
You’re almost lying. I know you work for Charlie.
“Enough corporate speak. Come on—what would you change, no filters? You’re a new face, you have new ideas.”
Her fingers splayed out—an objection, nervous but without conviction. “Oh, I don’t think I—”
He laughed. “Come on! Where’s the fun in denial? What would you try differently? No marketing restraints.”
She took a breath, once again weighing her response—diplomatically, no doubt. “A couple of things. Drop “Energy Solutions” from the brand name, publicly. Too wordy.”
Agreed. But the DBA…
“And the brand needs a complete overhaul. It’s boring and long overdue for a rebrand.”
I don’t think it has been redesigned since inception.
“Our approach is too serious. I think in today’s day and age with ever-changing technology, it’s important for marketing and design to be a chameleon.”
The elevator slowed as it came to a stop on floor 25. The doors rattled open, and a fellow suited man joined them.
“Unpack that,” Damien said.
Give me the literal elevator pitch.
“Well there’s a time and a place for every tone of advertising. I absolutely agree we should be serious in our approach to matters of customer service and information delivery.”
So far so good.
“But?”
“We advertise as if our entire customer base are octogenarians. Younger generations need a new approach—playful, dynamic, adaptive. Currently, it’s got no life.”
The elevator slowed again, opening up on floor 19. He had no idea what was on floor 19.
Late night for you too, stranger?
“Have a good night,” the stranger said, stepping out onto another empty floor.
“It’s lifeless,” Damien repeated as the doors closed. He tried to think of a single advertisement he’d seen for his company—came up empty. Completely forgettable. Not a good thing to be.
“It’s imperative to speak different languages. I don’t just mean memes. Visual identity. Design thinking. A real rebrand. Right now our solutions are just a universal info dump. Walls of text. Too much all at once. And all paired with a severely outdated ‘look and feel.”
She put air quotes around “look and feel.”
“Nobody wants to engage with that—I sure don’t. Just look at our analytics. The Marketing Executive—”
Ah, yes. Charlie.
“—says that the CEO—”
I’m wounded, he thought with amusement. But confirms she doesn’t know who I am.
“—other executives, and the board don’t want to take risks because historically the safe option is what’s worked for them.”
If it’s forgettable, “lifeless” is generous. And if so, it flatlined years ago. Charlie just keeps performing CPR on the corpse.
“That’s so,” he agreed—almost.
“We have to be a marketing chameleon. We have to decide which type of advertising works best for each scenario. One size does not fit all, and the C-Suite is very keen on one itty bitty size. I agree with what my team says, and I’d love to let them plead their case. But I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Like I said. Too many floors from the top. My immediate boss would have to be willing to push those ideas up the chain, but I’m cut off at the legs—”
Damien remembered the email. “I won’t entertain the suggestion…”
“—doesn’t have the spine.”
So much for diplomatic. Though I don’t know if I would go so far as “spineless,” but you’re pretty close.
“It feels like the executives are out of touch or don’t give a shit. They don’t see how rigidity stifles creativity.”
I know someone else who thinks the exact same thing, he thought, feeling laughter bubble up inside him. Damn it, right again.
“Tell me how you really feel,” he said, the laughter falling out of him.
“I’m hangry, but there’s a Chippies on the way home.”
She laughed too. It was more unfiltered this time. It reminded him of the way it felt to press the accelerator …on the McMerc—clean, direct, full control. But this laugh? Something else entirely. No brakes.
“Those burritos do satisfy, don’t they?”
There was a long silence as the conversation came to a natural lull. The elevator settled on P2, and the doors opened to the stale underground scent of concrete and gasoline. He gestured for her to exit first, and followed her for a few long strides. They stopped in front of his car, though she didn’t appear to notice.
She gestured to a car sitting under a bright stripe of LED light—one that sat alone down a long line of empty spaces. “I’m this way.”
But then watched as her face changed, realization settling into place.
“Wait. You were already in the elevator. You’re with HuGES. Legal or something?
If I was legal, I would have ended that meeting after only an hour.
“Am I in trouble now?”
She gnawed on her lip, then offered him a nervous laugh.
And for my next trick…
“Yeah, or something.”
He pressed the unlock button on the keyfob, and the car thunked as the locks shot up. She glanced at it, eyes following the elegant lines of it, and then finally landing on the sign: “Reserved for HuGES CEO.”
Her expression didn’t change right away—just froze.
And then it hit.
Horror, blooming fast.
Rosettes colored her cheeks—red, like tail lights. It filled him with a little satisfaction, but also a touch of second-hand embarrassment.
“Damien Wilson. CEO.”
He extended his hand, waiting for her to shake it.
“Word of advice. Ask someone if they’re from legal—or any kind of upper management—before you shit on them. Not exactly the wisest course of action I’ve ever encountered.”
Damien laughed. He hoped it sounded gentle and teasing, almost reassuring—not something hostile. She smiled back, something nervous but earnest. She took his hand and gave it a firm shake. There was confidence in that touch.
“Anne Neuman.”
He turned her name over in his mouth, letting it coat his tongue like a candy. Memorizing it.
He smirked. “Well, Anne Neuman, you’ve given me a lot to contemplate. We don’t want to appear lifeless.”
She reddened further, the color in the tips of her ears. “Sorry.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “No need to apologize. It’ll take more than that for a write-up. Besides, I can appreciate a challenge. I’m the CEO, but I know I’m not the expert on everything—marketing included.”
He opened the driver’s side door, the butterfly doors lifting with a silken whoosh. He watched with slight glee as her eyes widened, tracking the movement.
He started the engine. The machine roared to life—a sound that never got old. It was a monster, growling as it idled. He pulled the door down and closed it, the outside rumble muffled—feeling the vibrations more than hearing them.
She gave him a slight nod, then turned to walk away, but at the sound of his window rolling down, she turned.
“Hey Anne?”
“Yes, Mr. Wilson?”
“Careful where you share your opinions. Some of us already know Charlie lacks initiative—we just don’t expect it to be said out loud.”
He winked, and while he wasn’t sure if it was a figment of his imagination, it almost looked like she turned another shade of red darker.
But what he did see for certain was the way her teeth once again bit into her lower lip with unease. Her finger teased the starfish pendant.
“I look forward to seeing how we can improve the company. Make me an official proposal. I’ll take a look at it—and maybe let your team pitch it, officially, to us upper management.”
He put the car in reverse and backed out slowly. She stepped aside.
“By the way,” he said, stopping beside her. “Please call me Damien. You and I are going to spend more time together because of your rant, so we might as well get chummy.”
He was satisfied with having the last word. She crossed her arms as he began to drive away.
“I’ll email you!” he called out at her, leaving her behind a few moments later as he turned a corner.
As Damien’s wheels transitioned from the underground concrete to the asphalt of the outside, with a quick glance at his phone, his thumb tapped a name that sat perpetually in his notification bar. It only rang once before being picked up on the other end.
“What’s up, D?”
“I know you’ll get a kick out of this. In the elevator just now. Let’s just say I was just on the receiving end of a surprisingly passionate rant…”