She scowls at me, and the professional curation finally cracks. Her face contorts into a mask of humiliated rage. “You’re making a mistake. You’re going to lose everything. Arthur will,”
“Arthur can have it,” I say, walking toward the door since she apparently won’t. My footsteps are heavy and definitive. Not wanting to wait for her to move, I reach past her and twist the lock myself.
Click.
I open the door wide, inviting the noise of the office back in. The phones. The printers. The life I’m about to leave behind.
“The Dubai project is on the desk,” I tell her, my voice as cold as the glass walls. “It’s yours. Take the specs. Take the partnership. Take it all.”
I grab my jacket from the back of the chair. I don’t look at her or the monitor again.
But I don’t head for the elevator. Not yet.
I turn left, toward the corner suite. Toward the heavy double doors I was too cowardly to yank open and do what needed to be done.
Adrenaline floods my system, hot and sharp. I don’t check my tie. I don’t smooth my hair. I stride down the hallway, a man marching to his own execution, or perhaps his own liberation.
I don’t knock.
I throw the doors open so hard they bounce against the stoppers with a violent thud.
Arthur Keane stands by the window, staring out at the city he thinks he owns. He turns slowly, his face arranging itself into a mask of irritated superiority.
“Ross,” he says, checking his watch. “You’re early. I assume you have the revised core specs?”
“I don’t have the specs, Arthur.” My voice booms, filling the cavernous office. I didn’t know I had this much volume in me. “And I don’t have the patience.”
“Excuse me?” Arthur steps away from the window. “Lower your voice. You sound hysterical.”
“I am hysterical!” I yell, stepping further into the room. “I’m hysterical because I’ve spent five years building your legacy while mine crumbled at home. I’m hysterical because I almost let this place turn me into something unrecognizable.”
Arthur sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Ross, sit down. You look like hell. Is this about the wife?”
He waves a dismissive hand. “Go home. Sleep for six hours. Buy a sports car. Get a mistress. Do whatever you need to handle this midlife crisis, but don’t bring this drama into my office.”
“It’s not a crisis,” I snarl, stepping up to his mahogany desk. I place my hands on the polished surface, leaning in until I see the sudden flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “It’s a resignation.”
He freezes. “You can’t resign. You’re on contract. You’re six months from partnership.”
“I don’t care about the partnership. I don’t care about the contract. Sue me. Blackball me. I am done.” I push off the desk, standing tall. “I am quitting, effective immediately. Tabitha has the Dubai files.”
“You’ll regret this by lunch,” Arthur warns, his voice turning icy. “You’ll be nothing in this town without me.”
“I’d rather be nothing in this town than everything in this office.”
I turn on my heel.
“Ross!” Arthur shouts.
I keep walking, crossing the threshold and leaving the Emperor shouting into an empty room.
The bullpen has gone silent. Heads pop up over cubicle walls like prairie dogs sensing a predator. They heard the shouting. They heard the crash of the doors.
Unbothered, I walk down the center aisle, my jacket slung over my shoulder.
Near the breakroom, Chan stands in the doorway.
He catches my eye. His expression is unreadable for a moment, then he smiles. It’s a small, sad, proud thing.
