Beyond the paper walls

Behind the mask

Sometimes, all you need is someone to look at you and say that everything will be alright—that it will all work out in your favor, if fate wills it.

But I don’t have that someone, and I’m on edge. I haven't slept in who knows how long, my stomach is empty except for two glasses of scotch and a pack of cigarettes keeping me alive, keeping me awake.

This project—this deal—it means everything to me. If I fail, my reputation is gone, and I'm not foolish enough to risk that. I entered this industry six years ago for the money. My father needed open-heart surgery, and I had to do whatever it took to make sure he survived. Don't ask me how I did it—there were things I’m not proud of, things I’d rather not remember—but I did what had to be done. When my father was safe, it became all about the money and the power, and I haven't looked back since. I thrive on knowing people are scared of me, and today, I’ll remind them why.

The scotch still burns as it works its way through my system, numbing the nerves as I sit in the meeting room with my so-called competitors, all of them likely having had a peaceful breakfast and a good night’s sleep—luxuries I can't afford right now. From my perch on the 10th floor, New York stretches out beneath me, as vast and indifferent as it always is. The meeting room feels unusually large, the long table stretching out in front of me, surrounded by few empty chairs. Perfect for something like this, I suppose.

I'm wearing red today, though I wanted to wear black. My "fashion-designer" sister insisted on red, claiming it would be better for the media as she didn't want me to repeat the same color as before. As if it matters. But I let her have her way. I don’t care about that. What matters now is this deal, this victory. This is all I’ve worked for.

One of my employees, someone who’s been with me since my master’s program in London, is presenting. I feel the weight of every second. Despite all the hours my team and I spent perfecting this, the anxiety never settles. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the presentation ends. Now, it’s out of my hands. There are ten companies in the room, each one with the potential to take this deal. And I can’t shake the feeling that it could slip away from me at any moment.

A ping from my phone breaks my focus.

Unknown: Hey! Thought I’d ask if you’re planning on eating today, or just running on stress fumes again?

Me: Who’s this?

Unknown: Oh, that’s cold. Really?

Me: I don’t have your number saved, Sherlock.

Unknown: Wow, if I get a nickel every time you ‘forget’ me…

Me: Zane, is that you?

Zane: Ding ding ding! The workaholic finally remembers. 🙄

Me: Did you switch numbers or am I actually losing my mind?

Zane: Both. I did, but let’s not shift the blame. Don’t tell me you’ve survived on ambition and air again today.

Me: It’s called a balanced diet, Zane. Look it up.

Zane: Bold of you to assume I haven’t. Now, save the number, or I’ll crash your office with a sticky note labeled “Remember me?”

Me: Bold of you to think I’d let you in.

Zane: Bold of you to think I’d knock. Now, food—yes or no?

Me: I’d go for carbonara pasta, and don’t hold back on the parmesan. You know the drill.

Zane: Bossy as usual. On it. And don’t forget, save my number or you are done🥰

His unexpected care brings a brief smile to my face, but before I can savor it, the door opens, and the head assistant steps in, cutting my fleeting moment of peace.