ISABEL
Monday morning, I arrive at Queens Enterprises at 7:45 AM.
Candice's assistant, a severe woman named Patricia who looks like she's never smiled in her life, points me to a cubicle in the back corner. Not an office, a cubicle with fabric walls and fluorescent lighting that hums like a dying insect.
"Ms. Queens will see you at nine," Patricia says, her tone suggesting I shouldn't hold my breath.
I sit in the cheap rolling chair and boot up the ancient desktop computer. Around me, other junior analysts are already working, their fingers flying across keyboards. None of them look up. None of them introduce themselves.
I'm invisible here.
I pull out my phone, checking messages out of habit. Nothing new. Nothing from the three men whose names I moaned five days ago.
Ares. Marco. Ha
