The executive floor is tomb-quiet, not a soul in sight. It's better that way.
No one to witness me offering up the last crumbs of my dignity as a palate cleanser to a man who couldn't care less about whether I live or die once these ninety days are over.
I don't go to my desk. Instead, I head straight for Andrew's office. Inside, it is exactly as sterile as always—glass, chrome, leather, boring.
It's.the most impersonal place I've ever seen in my life, like a museum exhibit titled "Successful CEO, Circa 2024."
Where are the personal photos?
Where's the row of clicky-clacky silver balls on the desk that every evil boss is supposed to have?
Does he not at least need a small hand mirror off of which to snort cocaine and gaze adoringly at his own features?
He does have a quintuplet of Michelin star awards on a bookshelf by the window, so in his defense, maybe that's all the decor he cares to have.
