Chapter 5 - The Gateway to Survival
Eighteen months of grueling unemployment reduced Mark Peterson to a shell of his former arrogant self.
He sold the black BMW to pay back rent. He sold his watch collection. He moved into a dingy, one-bedroom apartment in suburban Tacoma, taking freelance bookkeeping gigs that paid barely enough to cover his grocery bills and cheap whiskey.
Desperation eventually forced him to look north, toward the booming corporate market in Seattle.
In the autumn of his seventh year since the divorce, a corporate recruiter contacted him about an opening.
Aura Global Infrastructure, an massive eco-development conglomerate controlling billions in Pacific Northwest commercial projects, was seeking a Senior Financial Director for their flagship urban renewal division. The salary was three hundred and fifty thousand dollars, plus stock options.
It was the lifeline Mark needed to save himself from bankruptcy.
He spent his last savings having his old gray suit tailored, buying a sharp red tie, and rehearsing his interview responses for three days straight in his bathroom mirror. He polished his old leather briefcase until the scratches faded.
On the morning of his interview, a thick, dark rain fell over Seattle.
Mark stepped out of the transit station at 8:15 a.m., holding a cheap, five-dollar collapsible umbrella he had bought from a convenience store. As he walked toward the sleek glass tower of Aura Global, a gust of wind caught the frame, snapping two metal ribs and turning the canopy inside out.
Freezing rain drenched his hair, soaked through his jacket shoulders, and trickled down the back of his neck.
“Dammit!” Mark cursed, tossing the broken plastic umbrella into a street trash can.
He hurried through the revolving glass doors of the tower, shivering violently as the blast of warm lobby air hit his wet suit. He checked his reflection in the polished marble elevator wall. He looked damp, frantic, and slightly ragged around the edges, but he forced his shoulders back.
I’m Mark Peterson, he reminded himself, trying to summon his old finance-firm swagger. I belong in rooms like this.
The elevator carried him smoothly to the forty-fifth floor—the executive penthouse suite.
The reception area was a masterpiece of modern architecture: floor-to-ceiling glass looking out over the misty bay, living moss walls, warm cedar woodwork, and seamless polished concrete floors.
A polished receptionist looked up from her curved desk.
“Mark Peterson for the final executive review,” Mark said, offering a tight, professional smile.
May you like
“Ah, yes, Mr. Peterson,” she said smoothly. “The Board of Directors and the Managing Principal are waiting for you in the corner suite. You may go right in.”
Mark straightened his damp tie, took a deep breath, and turned the handle of the heavy walnut door.
