Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 90899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
I blink and take a breath to assure him I’m fine—and so are the emerging market returns—but my mouth refuses to obey.
I shake my head slowly back and forth as I study the dozen faces around the mahogany conference table. The board members—all men and women I’ve known for over a decade, many of whom I consider friends—are waiting for me to continue. Some are smiling, some look worried. Some are taking notes. Others are already mentally spending their bonuses.
I’ll be getting a large bonus this year, too, but I’m already a billionaire. Even after Erica took her share in the divorce, I want for nothing. I will never have to worry about money again. Neither will my aunt or uncle or any of my cousins. If this job were just about a paycheck, I would have quit years ago.
But for me, this business has always been about the puzzle of it all, the thrill of studying the moving pieces and putting the competition in check before they realize the game is underway. I never thought I’d get tired of the hunt, the chase, the kill. I’m not a violent man in any sense of the word, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy crushing my competition.
Or, at least I did…
But lately, I haven’t enjoyed much of anything outside of long runs in the park before work, during which I binge history podcasts and do my best not to think about work.
And suddenly, with the clarity of a man waking from a long dream, I realize this isn’t just my usual holiday blues.
This is it, the moment I make a massive, possibly mad, but much-needed change.
With a soft exhalation, I close my laptop. “Actually, no, Gerald. Everything isn’t all right. I need to go.”
Miranda from Acquisitions tilts her head sharply to the right. “Go where? We still have the comparative analysis to review and only two hours before the holiday weekend.”
“You can go over the analysis without me. It’s all there in the email. You don’t need me.” I laugh, surprised by the hope in the sound . “You really don’t. The company’s going to be fine. There are half a dozen people who can fill my shoes, with ease.”
“Of course there aren’t, don’t be ridiculous.” Gerald says, concern in his tone. “I think we should take a break and—”
“I don’t need a break. I need to leave.” I glance around the table at the now uniformly stunned-looking faces of the board. “I’ll send you a list of candidates I think will do an outstanding job in this position by the end of the year.” I stand, straightening my tie, as if a crooked tie matters at this juncture.
But it’s habit.
So much of my life is habit, routines based on choices I made decades ago, and suddenly it seems insane that I haven’t stopped to question them long before now. Maybe even more insane than quitting my job in the middle of the end-of-year board meeting.
“I’m stepping down, effective immediately,” I continue. “My shares will be placed in a blind trust until the board approves a successor.”
“But the Milton acquisition—" someone starts.
“Will be in excellent hands with Sarah.” I nod to my second on the project, who sits up straighter in her chair. “She’s been ready to take point on this for months. I’ve just been too controlling to let go.”
“This is very sudden, Anthony,” Gerald says, a frown knitting his brow.
“For me, too.” I slip my laptop into my briefcase, my movements calm, deliberate, even as a soft voice in my head wonders if I might be having a stroke. “But it’s right. I can feel it. It’s time I moved on. Past time.” I offer the board what I hope is a reassuring smile. “I’ll have my official resignation submitted by tomorrow. For now… Merry Christmas, everyone.”
And then, I walked out and kept walking.
The memory fades as I glance up, a little stunned to find myself standing in front of an unmarked door in the East Village. The entryway is massive, engraved with scenes of men and women in carnal embrace, and painted a deep ebony that gleams in the lights from the bars farther down the street. Beside it, a simple brass plate like the kind used to mark historic buildings reads: “The Garden of Earthly Delights – Members Only.”
It’s Twyla's place.
My best friend from Columbia Business School shocked everyone by turning down Wall Street to open what she called a “private social club for discriminating adults” AKA a sex club. A very private, very discreet, wildly successful sex club she’s turned into the hottest membership in the city. The rumors of the things that go on inside are shocking, even to a relatively jaded man like me.
I grew up in a bad part of Brooklyn, playing in the yard behind my uncle’s bar until way too late most nights. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know what a prostitute was or feel sorry for the women who roamed the streets in our neighborhood. Once, I accidentally interrupted a coupling in a back alley on my way to pick up a keg with my oldest cousin, Nick.