“Why can’t you just talk to him, Eve?”My mother’s voice rings in my ear as I press the elevator button, the cool metal starkly contrasting the building’s warmth.This isn’t my preferred manner of starting the workday, but there are only so many calls I can ignore before family guilt becomes a full-blown migraine.“Luis was good to you.A decent man, respectful, with a real job.”
I step into the elevator and jab the button for the seventh floor.The doors slide shut with a soft hiss, sealing me inside a space too small for my patience and my mother’s opinions.Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of Thalvyn Maritime’s gleaming tower, New York City sprawls below, a tangle of skyscrapers cutting through the morning mist that hangs over the Hudson.
“Mom,” I exhale, adjusting the ridiculously large blue hoops dangling from my ears, the kind Luis always said were ‘too much’ for the office—which is precisely why I wear them every damn day.“We’ve been over this.”
“No, you talk,mija.You don’t listen.”
I press my fingers against my temple, feeling a headache lurking behind my eyes.The fluorescent lights hum above me, a dull echo of the frustration building in my skull.My reflection in the mirrored walls of the elevator shows my dark hair falling in waves past my shoulders, my olive skin with minimal makeup—a simple eyeliner that wings out just enough to say ‘I could kill you with this precision’ and a bold red lipstick that’s practically my signature.
“I listen,” I say, measured and tight, pressing my lips together to keep from saying something I’ll regret.“I just don’t agree.”
“He showed up for you,” my mother says, tone sharpening.“Birthdays.Holidays.He even took you to that rooftop place you liked.”
I stare up at the elevator display.‘3’...‘4’...‘5’...Through the glass, I can see the bare winter branches of Central Park in the distance, dark silhouettes against the gray sky.
“That rooftop place gave me food poisoning,” I deadpan.“Nothing says romance like your future son-in-law holding my hair back while I threw up his idea of fine dining.All Luis could do afterward was complain about me ruining his shoes.”
“Oh,por Dios,” she mutters.“You don’t just walk away from a man because of one argument.”
“I didn’t walk away because of one argument.”My voice flattens as I straighten the crisp white blouse tucked into my high-waisted pants.“And you know that.But even if I had, it’s still my choice.Not yours.”
“He bought you a ring!You are past your prime, and he still wanted you, and for you to?—”
I close my eyes and try not to scream.The elevator climbs.‘6’...
“That ring came with a lot of expected sacrifices on my end,” I say.“Why can’t you just, for once in your life, understand?—”
“You don’t talk to your mother like that,” she snaps, all pride and practiced guilt.“I raised you better than this.You think your career is going to hold your hand when you’re old?You think your title is going to love you?”
The elevator dings.Seventh floor.
I step out, unwinding my wool scarf and adjusting my tailored coat before my red-bottomed heels hit the polished marble.The marketing floor of Thalvyn Maritime opens out in three wings, each one designated for a separate division.Branding and Strategy is on the left, our open-plan desks enclosed in a glass-fronted office with soft beige furnishings and mood boards pinned to walls like abstract art.Straight ahead lies Digital and Content, where their oversized monitors are turned off, no one in yet.And to the right is Events and Client Engagement, where pristine desks are surrounded by fabric swatches, sample champagne bottles, and sleek printed mockups of luxury yacht layouts.A conference room is tucked just inside the right wing for the occasions of schmoozing big wallets, complete with lush couches that tuck away to make room for ordinary marketing meetings when not in use.
Glistening transparent walls.Polished floors.The subtle scent of lemon polish and expensive ambition.
“I have to go,” I say into the phone before my mother can launch into her next point.
“Of course you do,” she snaps.“Always work.Always your meetings, your deadlines, your yacht campaigns.You’re letting your career destroy your future.”
I pause just long enough to answer her clearly.
“No.Luis is what destroys my future.”
And I hang up.
Staring at the screen, I consider blocking her number for the rest of the day.Knowing her, she’s going to keep calling me to continue this conversation.Sighing, I just put my phone on silent and tuck it into my bag.
I’m early today, a habit formed from years of having to prove myself twice as hard as everyone else.The pale winter sun streams through the eastern windows, casting long, golden rectangles across the floor.Outside, the city is already alive, yellow cabs threading through the streets like busy bees, their honks muffled by the thick glass.Through the windows, I can see the East River in the distance, where some of Thalvyn Maritime’s finest luxury yachts are docked, gleaming white against the blue water.Sixty-foot dreams made manifest in fiberglass and teak, waiting for people with more money than most small countries to take them for weekend jaunts to the Hamptons.
As soon as I enter the wing for Branding and Strategy, the smell of stale cigarettes has me gagging.Pinching my nose shut, I glare in the direction of the usual culprit.Joshua Taylor, one of the core members of this division and my teammate.“Oh, dear god.Don’t tell me you pulled another all-nighter?”
Joshua leans back in his chair and tilts his head back to look at me, his auburn hair sticking up like a disheveled hedgehog and dark bags under his tired blue eyes.His perpetual five o’clock shadow has evolved into something more substantial, and his rumpled button-down looks like he slept in it.Which, knowing Joshua, he probably did.
“So you finally decided to grace us with your presence?”he drawls, his voice raspy from too many cigarettes.
I set my bag down on my desk, arching my brows.“Who’s this ‘us’?The only reason you’re still pulling all-nighters is because you don’t get your work done on time.I kept telling you yesterday that you needed to get the previous numbers of the Aerion 108 dealt with.It’s not my fault you take a hundred cigarette breaks.”
Joshua is already rifling through my bag for food, uncaring of how I bat his hands away.“I need those cigarette breaks.This whole place is like a pressure cooker these days.It’s about to blow up any minute.I need to stay cool and composed if I want to get through it.”
