"Get out!" Julian yelled after her. And if you ever try to get a job in this city again, I'll know I'll make sure you starve. Elena walked through the dining room.
She could feel the eyes of every patron on her. The pity, the judgment. She walked past the hostess stand, pushed open the heavy oak doors, and stepped out into the cool Chicago night. The wind hit her face, drying the single tear that had escaped.
She stood on the sidewalk, shivering slightly in her thin white shirt. She was unemployed. She had rent due in 3 days. Her mother's medical bills were sitting on her kitchen counter, a stack of envelopes written in red ink.
Julian Thorne had taken her dignity and her paycheck in the span of 10 minutes, all to soothe his bruised ego. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. It was an old model. The screen cracked.
She dialed a number she hadn't called in 3 years. A number she swore she would never call again. It rang once. Twice.
Hello. A deep gravelly voice answered on the other end. This is a private line. Who is this?
It's Elena, she said, her voice hard as flint. There was a long silence on the other end. Elena. The voice softened, tinged with disbelief.
Elena Vance. My god, it's been. Are you okay? We thought you fell off the face of the earth.
I'm not okay, Marcus, she said, watching through the window of The Obsidian as Julian laughed and toasted with his wine glass. I need a favor. No, I don't need a favor. I need a job.
You know the door at Sterling Capital is always open for you, the man named Marcus said. But you said you were done. You said the game was too dirty. It is dirty, Elena said, her eyes narrowing as she watched Julian Thorne take a bite of his Wagyu beef.
But I think it's time I got my hands dirty again. I have a target, Marcus. Oh, Marcus sounded intrigued. Who is the unlucky soul?
Julian Thorne, Elena said. And I don't just want to beat him. I want to bury him. The glass walls of the Sterling Capital headquarters on the 88th floor offered a panoramic view of Chicago, a sprawling grid of amber lights and dark water.
It was a view reserved for the masters of the universe, the men and women who moved markets with a whisper. Marcus Sterling stood by the window swirling a glass of scotch. He was 60 with a man of silver hair and the build of a retired linebacker. He was a legend on Wall Street, a man known for ruthless efficiency but unshakable ethics.