The next morning, the sun rose over the city of San Francisco, glinting off the glass towers of the financial district.

Mark woke up in the guest room of the penthouse—he hadn’t wanted to sleep in the same bed as me for months anyway. He felt fantastic. He stretched, feeling the lightness of a man who had just shed a heavy burden.

He showered, shaving carefully. He selected his most expensive suit, a navy Brioni. Today was going to be a great day. He planned to walk into the office, announce his divorce, and then introduce Chloe as his official partner. He was the King of Vance Global, and his reign was just beginning.

He drove his company-leased Aston Martin to the headquarters. He blasted music, speeding down the highway. He imagined the looks of envy from his colleagues when they realized he was single and powerful.

He pulled into the underground executive garage. He drove to his reserved spot, right next to the elevator.

There was a cone in it.

Mark frowned. He honked his horn. The parking attendant, an old man named Jerry who usually waved at him, was nowhere to be seen.

“Incompetent idiots,” Mark muttered. He parked in a visitor spot three rows back. “I’ll fire Jerry later.”

He grabbed his briefcase and walked to the private executive elevator. This elevator went straight to the 50th floor, the C-Suite. It required a special black key card.

Mark approached the scanner. He tapped his card.