The Fiftieth Floor

The coffee burns. She feels the heat through the cardboard tray she's carrying, a sharp heat against her palms, but she doesn't shift her grip, neither did she adjust nor complain. She just walks. She has three mugs. Two have sugar, one does not . She memorized the order months ago. No one ever says “thank you." The office is loud. Phones ringing. Fingers typing. Someone laughs loudly in the small office on her left. Someone else complains about a deadline. Lena walks through it all like she's not there. "SAMANTHA!" She stops. Mr. Hendricks stands in his office doorway. He waves her over with impatience. "Bring the coffee in here." Lena's jaw tightens. Then she walks to him with the coffee tray. Her face is blank. Samantha. He calls her that. He has for two years. She stopped correcting him after her first month. She enters his office. Three men in expensive suits sit around the table. None look up. Lena places each mug exactly where Hendricks' visitors can reach them. The men grunt thanks without meeting her eyes. Hendricks takes his mug. Already on his phone. Already somewhere else. Lena leaves. Back to her desk. The smallest desk. The one near the supply closet. The one everyone passes without seeing. She sits. Stares at her computer screen. Spreadsheets. Data entry. They don't matter to people who don't care. Two years. No promotion. No raise. No recognition. Just the coffee and the wrong name and the desk near the supply closet. "Lena." She looks up. Maya Chen stands beside her, warm smile, kind eyes. The only person in this building who uses her real name. "You okay?" Maya asks. Lena forces a smile. “I'm the same." Maya's smile falters. She squeezes Lena's arm. "Lunch later?" "Sure." Lena watches as Maya heads back to her desk. Grateful. Always grateful. Her phone vibrates. A news alert. She glances at it. Probably another celebrity death. Probably another politician caught doing something stupid. Then the headline loads. Breaking News: MEDIA MOGUL MARCUS ROSS DEAD AT 68 Her hand freezes on the mouse. She reads it again. Breaking News: MEDIA MOGUL MARCUS ROSS DEAD AT 68 Marcus Ross. Her father. She stares at the screen. The words don't change. The last time she saw him was three years ago. Outside his office building. He walked past her. Then he stopped "You're a distraction, I have a real family,” he said. Then he walked away. Lena stood there. She didn't move, she didn't cry, just existed. The way she always existed on the edges. Invisible. Now he's no more. She presses a hand to her chest. Her heartbeat is steady. Normal. The same as always. She should feel something. Grief? Loss? Relief? Nothing comes. "Lena?" Maya's voice. Closer now. Lena looks up. Maya looks at her face, then she looks at the phone. Her hand flies to her mouth. "Oh my goodness." Lena looks at the screen again. At her father's face in the article photo. Gray hair. Sharp eyes. A stranger. "I don't know what to feel," Lena whispers. Maya hugs her, Lena's arms hanging by her side for a second. Then they rise. She hugs Maya back. "What are you going to do now?" Maya asks. Lena pulls away. She looks at the screen. The article mentions the funeral. It's tomorrow. At a cemetery she's never visited, for a man who never wanted her. "Nothing," Lena says. "There's nothing I can do." --- Her phone vibrates again. A text. Unknown number. She opens it. The funeral is tomorrow. You're not invited. But you should come anyway. Lena reads it three times. A. Alexander. Her half-brother. The one who inherited everything. The one who looked through her like she was glass. Maya reads over her shoulder. "Is that...?" Lena nods. Can't speak. "Why would he text you?" Lena shakes her head. “I don't know." The cursor blinks on her screen. Waiting for her response. She types nothing. Locks the phone. Slides it into her pocket. But the words burn there all day. You are not invited. But you should come anyway.