I could be enough of a whiner and go through everything good that’s fallen out of my life over the last, oh, twelve hours or so.

But I think even mentioning that yesterday fucking sucked—and that today continues that pattern—is enough complaining for now. So, thanks for bearing with me.

There is one potential shitty thing that I’ll try to frame as a positive: compared to everything I lost yesterday, losing the chance to spend a nice, quiet weekend day at the office is not that bad.

Okay, it’s still kind of fucking annoying. But I’ve got bigger fish to fry these days.

Like losing this office altogether.

But, like Lush Republic is just a fucking bar, this gothic Woolworth Building beauty is just a fucking office.

There’ll be others. Oh boy, will there be others, I’m sure.

I can’t start getting sentimental about the concept of offices.

I’m not too sentimental about this office in particular, anyway.

Well, maybe just a bit.

The elevator doors open with a ding to a nearly empty lobby.

I take a careful step into the elevator, which I have all to myself.

Staying as steady as I can on my feet as the cat lurches upward, I settle slowly down to the floor as the vestiges of last night’s boozing re-emerge.

I’m going to miss those Saturdays and Sundays, with an upper floor of a skyscraper all to myself.

Did you know that this steel and terra cotta motherfucker was the tallest goddamn building on Earth for twenty years? It all started in 1913, with Woodrow Wilson—that’s President Woodrow Wilson—smashing a remote control button in the freaking White House and illuminating the floodlights atop the Cathedral of Motherfucking Commerce for the official goddamn opening.

Fuck. I might be swearing more than usual, because I’m tired—or it might be because I’m feeling patriotic.

At least in a historical sense. Tallest fucking shit in the world.

Just a mere fucking century ago.

Yeah, I’m a tad sentimental about this office. I can’t deny that any longer.

It’s been an escape for me, especially during that half-decade bridge between my honeymoon on Hawaii and my brief odyssey with Maddie.

That odyssey ended yesterday, but it’s feeling like a fucking lifetime ago already.

Hanging out all night at Lush Republic will do that. With all the time I’ve spent there, I never knew how hard the staff liked to party after the doors close at four.

Whiskey shots, tequila shots, fucking grain alcohol shots…

And it all just ended a couple hours ago.

My already substantial respect for Stacia took on a whole new dimension after seeing the way she can drink.

All in all, it was a proper sendoff for Lush Republic. I know it’ll be around for a few more weeks, but I don’t know if I can handle any more staff-level sendoffs.

A few more open-hours visits to the bar in a civilian capacity would admittedly be more my speed.

I could probably do without stumbling out the bar’s service entrance at six-thirty before stumbling in a half-aware daze back to my neighborhood and proceeding to walk into the wrong fucking building for a Sunday morning.

But as I lie on the floor of the rocketing Cathedral of Motherfucking Commerce elevator, I’m hit with the blunt realization that I’m not ready to even walk into my fucking apartment yet.

The walk down to the Financial District was the first time I’d been alone since Madeline left, so I was more than happy for the blanket of intoxication that still covered me then.

The time and exercise of the walk down here lifted the blanket just enough for me to realize that I’m not ready for the intense flood of memories that walking into Ten Barclay would bring—even though it’s my fucking home.

So, I realize now, I semi-consciously chose my office building because it’s my first choice for an escape from the stresses of the world.

From what I’ve gathered, it’s the polar opposite of the way most people view their workplace.

You couldn’t invent a better way to rob me of that notion than hearing Kallie’s and Barrister’s voices—and Phil’s and Rosen’s—echoing through the lobby in front of me on a fucking Sunday.

I don’t think any of them saw me, but I doubt I can avoid running into them on the twenty-eighth floor.

That’s what I’m dreading as the elevator ticks closer to my floor.

Reality and sobriety and a monster fucking hangover are now just beginning to sink in. I was enjoying the giddiness on the way up here, but it’s going to be time to sit the fuck up soon.

Not to mention—standing, walking, and talking with the execs and Kallie Fern.

I wonder how many office workers are hanging around this building on a Sunday. Probably not too many. Probably very few, in fact.

What I’m driving at is it might be plausible for me to just sleep in this fucking elevator for a few hours.

But no, I’ll get up out of respect for the janitorial and maintenance staff.

On a more selfish note, if Kallie and the execs were to find my hungover ass sleeping in an elevator car, it probably wouldn’t strengthen my candidacy for the Switzerland contract very much.

Fuck that fucking shit.

Not wanting to go home this morning is understandable—at least, in my book, it is—but maybe I should’ve booked a room at the fucking Club Quarters or something instead of going to work.

“I’m not even wearing a fucking suit,” I say out loud.

Ding.

Fuck.

Welcome to Sunday morning in the Cathedral of Commerce. My little half-drunk decision to come to work this morning may have jeopardized one of the best shitty fucking options I’ve got right now.

Then again, maybe that’s for the best.

And the fucking door is closing again.

Rolling out of my temporary bed—also known as the elevator—I’m relieved to find the outer hallway the reception area as peaceful and as abandoned as I would’ve expected on this most restful of days.

That infamous quartet of voices makes itself known as I scuffle down the corridor. The voices are coming from the boardroom, and I can see that the door is closed—completely.

That’s weird, seeing as how—as far as they know—they have the office to themselves. The only other person any of them would expect to be here on a Sunday is me.

And I don’t think it’s common knowledge that I sometimes come in on weekends.

When I do, I’m not exactly running into a lot of coworkers.

Or any coworkers, for that matter.

I don’t know what they’re trying to fucking conceal themselves from. It could be me or everything or just fucking nothing.

If this meeting or whatever is supposed to be is that secretive, I don’t know why they’d even have it here.

Unless it’s to seem less suspicious.

My oxfords clack on the floor as I reel back and forth for a moment.

The surge of unsteadiness and mild nausea passes quickly, but the headache of the fucking century is snaking its way into my forehead and temples.

Last night’s Pacific Ocean of booze is rubbing its palms together, just getting started on its mission to make me pay for my few hours of the hazy drunken mood-lift.

My shoes are also the loudest fucking clacking sounds imaginable in the empty hallway, but I manage to stop them enough.

Or, maybe it wasn’t soon enough. The conversation’s barely understandable from where I am, but it seems to stop for a moment.

There’s no reason I should fear them discovering me in the hallway, but they just might have a reason to be very wary of anyone here besides the three highest ranking partners.

And Kallie Fern, who’s becoming a constant fixture in those circles.

A loud volley of laughs from the boardroom tells me they either don’t care someone’s out in the hallway, or they have no fucking clue.

The latter is much more likely. Once the laughter stars dying down, I hear Kallie imitating someone in a dumb voice.

Yeah, more of this shit.

The laughter starts anew, and their voices all start chattering away like gossipy middle schoolers.

Fuck it, the office is not the place for me today.

My headache commences a full-court press during the elevator ride down.

There’s probably more going on than just gossip. Even if there’s nothing illegal happening per se, shit’s getting done in the shadows of a conference room on a Sunday morning.

It’s another cool day, but holy fuck does the colder air feel nice the second I step back outside.

I’m sure there’s been things done in the shadows at the firm since the beginning—well before I was even hired.

Most of the deals made and alliances formed during my time at the firm all seemed to emerge from somewhere I never saw. I’ve managed to avoid witnessing any of this furtive shit until recently.

What I see might not be pretty, and it might seem fucking nauseating to me in the moment, but I can’t act so shocked at something which I know has been happening for a long time.

If I see evidence of anything illegal, that’ll be a different story.

It wouldn’t be all that shocking either, though.

I settle onto a bench in City Hall Park to take in some more of the healing, cool breezes off the river before I give up and go back to my apartment.

In just a few minutes, my headache is waning, and my nausea’s almost completely gone.

The drunkenness is also almost completely gone, along with any traces of giddy denial of actual fucking reality.

I’m sobering up now, and it’s time to face reality.

Maddie’s gone, so I might as well accept that. I’m trying, at least.

My options all seem to suck now, but if I do go to Switzerland, I can be out of this world sooner rather than later.

Since I’ve been leaning in that direction recently, I need to start taking the idea fucking seriously.

Especially with only five days to decide.

And especially now that I’m in competition with someone who knows how to work the system so effortlessly.

There’s no time for self-pity or denial.

It’s time to go the fuck home and get the fuck to work.