That’s the first thing I think as the black sedan pulls up to JFK, glossy and anonymous, the driver stepping out and opening the trunk like we’re important instead of expendable.
Beth hovers beside me, clutching her carry-on.
“Is this… for us?”
“For the company,” I say. “Same thing. Sort of.”
She smiles anyway, wide-eyed as we slide into the backseat. Leather. Tinted windows. Bottled water already waiting. She presses her forehead briefly to the glass as Manhattan begins to materialize in the distance.
I know better.
This isn’t a reward.
This is how they soften the ground before they drop you.
Traffic crawls. The city rises sharp and vertical, glass and steel stacked like a threat. Beth keeps glancing around, taking it all in like she’s been handed a backstage pass.
We pull up to the hotel on Park Avenue just before six.
That’s where Ellen is waiting.
Clipboard tucked under one arm. Heels clicking like punctuation marks against the pavement. She doesn’t smilewhen she sees us — just checks her watch, nods once, and gestures toward the revolving doors.
“Upstairs,” she says. “Change. Drinks start at six sharp.”
Beth straightens instantly, impressed.
I clock the details — Ellen not asking about Boston, not asking about the quarter, not asking aboutanythingthat matters.
Punishment comes wrapped in five-star hotels and tight schedules.
The hotel on Park Avenue is obscene in the way only corporate hotels can be—quiet luxury, money without warmth. At check-in, someone hands me an envelope with the agenda printed on thick paper like it’s a wedding invitation.
Drinks at six. Meet and greet.
Jim is already there when we get upstairs. He’s chewing gum like it personally wronged him, jaw tight, eyes restless. He hasn’t smiled in days. No one has.
At six sharp, we gather in the lounge. Everyone pretends. Everyone’s careful. No one wants to be the one who says the wrong thing and gets marked. Heads are already on the block—we just don’t know whose.
Beth leans toward me. “Is it always like this?”
“Only when things are bad,” I murmur.
Dinner is at Windows on the World.
The irony doesn’t escape me.
Open bar. Lobster. Linen so white it feels aggressive. The city sprawls beneath us, glittering and infinite, like nothing could ever go wrong here. Beth keeps glancing down, stunned.
“This is unreal,” she whispers. “Should I tip?”
I shake my head. “No. Corporate covers everything. Even the guilt.”
She laughs, unsure if I’m joking.
I’m not.
We eat. We drink. We perform. This is what they do—distract you with decadence while sharpening the knife. Expense it all. Pretend it’s not your ass on the line.
