No one is laughing. No one is talking near the water cooler. There’s a thick, pressurized quiet of people afraid to stop typing.
Exactly like the firm I left. The same kind of place where I buried my marriage.
“We have a culture of excellence,” the manager continues, tapping the paper with a trimmed fingernail. “We expect our partners to be available. Evenings. Weekends when necessary. We’re building legacies, after all. Not 9-to-5s.”
A month ago, I would have nodded. I would have called this “passion.” I would have felt important.
Now, I look at a young associate in the corner. He’s rubbing his temples, staring at a CAD model with glassy eyes. His phone is face down on the desk, ignored. He looks exhausted. He looks lonely.
He looks like me.
The manager offers me a pen. “It’s a generous offer,” I say. My voice is steady, but my stomach rolls.
“It’s the best offer you’ll get in this city,” the manager says, his voice dropping an octave. “Considering the… rumors about your departure from Keane.”
I glare at the pen. Then I look at the associate in the corner again.
I slide the contract back across the glass.
“I can’t sign it.”
The manager’s smile falters. It hangs there, frozen. “Excuse me?”
“I can’t give you evenings,” I say. “And I won’t give you weekends.”
The manager laughs, a short, sharp bark of disbelief. “Ross, be serious. This is the industry. You don’t get to the top by clocking out at five to walk the dog.”
“Then I don’t want to be at the top.”
I stand and button my jacket. The click of the plastic button is loud in the silent room. It feels final, like a latch snapping shut on a vault I’m leaving behind.
“I’m looking for a firm that builds homes, not cages,” I say. “Thank you for your time.”
The manager doesn’t stand. He just stares at me, his mouth slightly open, as if I’ve spoken a language he doesn’t speak.
I turn and walk out.
The glass door swings shut behind me, sealing in the conditioned air and the ambition. I walk through the bullpen.
Heads turn as I pass. I see the dark circles, the pallid skin of people who haven’t seen the sun in three days. They look at my buttoned jacket, then at the exit sign, then back at their screens. There is confusion in their eyes, and beneath it, a sharp, naked envy. I am the man walking away from the fire while they are still holding the buckets.
I hit the call button for the elevator. It arrives with a cheerfulding. The doors slide open. I step in and press the lobby button.
The doors close, cutting off the view of the rows of desks.
As I descend forty floors, gravity tugs at my stomach. The numbers count down: 30… 20… 10… Lobby.
That was the third interview this week. Thethirdsix-figure offer. But most importantly, the third time I’ve walked away because I spotted a red flag.
I pull out my phone. The screen is blank, showing no texts from Margot. Our conversations these days are fragile, briefexchanges about logistics. But I don’t deserve more, so I take what I can get.
Expecting the same, I skip the next interview. Instead, I get in my car and drive south, away from the gleaming glass towers and into the industrial district. I’d already googled smaller businesses that might offer more flexibility.
The drive is uneventful. When I arrive, I park my car and study the building.
The converted warehouse has a peeling sign:Affordable Homes Architecture.The brick is old, the mortar crumbling in places.
What catches my eye is how dark it is inside. Most lights are off. Desks are desks. Monitors are off. A janitor mops the lobby under the dimmed night security lights.
