You are invited to the Game.
There’s no hint as towhatthe Game is. If you ask, they’ll say it’s a silly little thing. The company was founded by gamers and this is a tribute to that sense of whimsy and nonconformity.
We may be a multinational corporation, but we remember our roots and when you ascend to our executive ranks, we don’t invite you to some boring cocktail party. No, you get an invitation to the Game.
Just a silly little thing.
But as Vivienne stares at those six words, the RSVP number on the back, she knows what her husband meant by, “Don’t.”
Don’t accept.
Don’t go.
Please, just don’t.
“Ihear an envelope winged its way into your condo last night.”
Vivienne looks up from her desk to see Erika Price, VP of Strategic Design. This time last year, Erika had been a skyrocketing star, two years younger than Vivienne and two pay grades beneath her. No one had been surprised when she receivedherinvitation.
Vivienne studies Erika. She’s not sure what she’s looking for. Signs of terrible damage inflicted by the Game? The haunted emptiness in eyes that have seen too much, reflecting the memory of a horrific choice she’ll regret to her grave?
Uh…yeah. Sorry, Marco, but you’ve seen too many horror films. We both have.
Even thinking that about Erika is enough to make Vivienne smile. She knew Erika before the promotion, when she’d been a vivacious new hire, always bubbling over with excitement at some innovative design concept. She’s even happier today, newly married and expecting her first baby.
Vivienne flinches at the last thought. Ten months and she only need to think the wordbabyfor the grief to surge. Grief and guilt, remembering how relieved she’d been that Hannah slept so long, greedily seizing the chance for a little extra sleep, never even thinking of checking on her.
She shakes it off and fixes her eyes on Erika’s face, careful not to let her gaze drop to the bulge under the younger woman’s blouse.
“So getting an envelope isn’t exactly a secret, huh?” Vivienne says.
“I’m not supposed to say anything, but I had to offer my congratulations.” Erika pulls over a chair and sits. “And I wanted to see how you’re doing. People talk about the Game. Rumors are everywhere. Hey, we’re a tech firm. We’ve all seen one too many sci-fi films.”
“I was thinking horror.”
Erika grins. “That, too. So, while I can’t say anythingspecific, if you have any concerns, I can tell you this much about the Game.” She leans in. “It’s really kinda lame.”
Vivienne raises her brows.
“Boys and their toys,” Erika says. “I used to be a hardcore D&D’er. Pencil and paper. So I appreciate old school. But there’s nostalgia and then there’s embarrassingly outdated.” She whispers, “Our first joint project? Convincing the board it’s time for version 2.0.”
AsVivienne walks out of the staff dining room, she looks at her cell phone. The RSVP number is right there. Punched in and waiting. It’s been punched in and waiting for almost two hours.
Just push it. Press the button and say yes.
Marco’s overreacting. He’s worried about you. And you’re not the only one still reeling from Hannah’s death. Being overprotective is his way of coping.
She spots a woman leaving the executive dining room. Vivienne knows her. Knowsofher, at least. Everyone does. Hers is the name invoked in whispers of the Game.
Just look at Fran Lee. She played the Game. Got her big promotion. And something inside her snapped. You can see it in her eyes. Her husband left and took the kids, and she doesn’t even seem to care. All she has is her job, and every year, she slips a little bit more.
She’s broken. The Game did that.
Vivienne wants to lag behind. Find some excuse to stay far from Fran Lee. Return to the dining room and grab a cappuccino to go. They really do make the best cappuccinos. Well, unless you count the executive dining room’s version. The average employee gets better food and drink—free—than they could buy over in San Francisco, but the executives get just a little bit better. Not merely handcrafted cappuccino from an Italian-trained barista—their cappuccino is made from fresh-roasted beans, ground after you place your order.
Which is all the more reason to ignore the niggling voice that urges her to run after Fran and talk to her. Go back, get a cappuccino, and dream of next week, when she’ll taste the wonders of the executive version.
Yes, that’s what she should do because, really, a good cappuccino is worth it. Worth just closing her eyes, strangling her doubts and plowing blindly forward.
