Chapter 2 - The Ghost on the Forty-Second Floor
Marcus Alderstone hated glass walls. When he had designed the corporate headquarters five years earlier, the architects had pushed for transparent conference rooms everywhere to foster a sense of modern openness. Marcus had allowed it for the lower floors, but he kept his penthouse suite opaque, heavy, and shielded from the prying eyes of corporate climbers.
At sixty-two, his hair was entirely silver, and his face was carved from decades of managing construction crews in brutal winters. He wore a simple dark wool sweater instead of a tailored suit, preferring comfort over boardroom theater.
On his massive desk, a secondary monitor displayed live feeds from the public areas and conference rooms across the building. It was a habit left over from his early days as a site foreman—he liked to see how his foremen treated the day laborers when they thought no one was watching.
Today, his eyes were locked on Conference Room B.
He had muted the audio at first, watching Vanessa Cole dismiss the young woman in the cream blouse. Marcus had noticed Emily the moment she walked through the security turnstile. Not because of her clothes, but because of the way she carried her portfolio—protectively, like an experienced carpenter carrying a prized miter box.
Marcus tapped his desk intercom. “Bring me the audio for Conference Room B.”
The speaker hissed softly, and the voices filled his private office.
“…your background suggests a mismatch with our corporate culture,” Vanessa’s cold voice echoed through the speakers.
Marcus leaned back, his jaw tightening. He remembered what it felt like to stand in a rich man’s office wearing work boots covered in drywall dust, listening to executives talk about “culture” while they sat on leather chairs paid for by underpaid laborers.
He watched Emily gather her portfolio. She didn’t cry. She didn’t beg. Her hands were remarkably steady as she tied the leather string around the cardboard folder.
“Excuse me, Ms. Cole,” Emily’s clear voice came through the monitor. “May I ask a question?”
“Make it quick,” Vanessa sighed, checking her watch.
“Does Alderstone design buildings for the people who live in them, or just for the people who finance them?”
Vanessa stared at her as if she were speaking a foreign language. “We design profitable luxury assets, Miss Carter. That is how the real estate market functions.”
“My father built houses for thirty-four years,” Emily said quietly, looking Vanessa straight in the eye. “He used to say that when a building loses its soul, the people inside start losing theirs too. I hope your luxury assets have better foundations than your hiring process.”
Marcus Alderstone let out a sudden, deep bark of laughter in his empty office. He hit the intercom button again.
“Miss Vance,” Marcus said into his desk mic, overriding the internal communications channel.
Down in Conference Room B, Vanessa Cole froze. The intercom in executive conference rooms was tied directly to the chairman’s office—a room most employees only saw in annual reports.
Vanessa scrambled to touch the wall panel. “Mr. Alderstone? I... I didn't realize you were observing interviews today.”
“Obviously,” Marcus’s gravelly voice rumbled through the speaker. “Miss Carter hasn't left the building yet, has she?”
“She was just leaving, sir—”
“Stop her,” Marcus commanded. “Bring her up to the penthouse immediately. And send Brooke Landry from the lobby up here as well. I want a word with both of them.”
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Vanessa swallowed hard, panic flashing across her face. “Sir, is there a problem?”
“You’re about to find out,” Marcus said, and cut the feed.
