The marble lobby of Caldwell & Pierce gleams under recessed lighting, all sharp angles and expensive minimalism. Maya sits behind the reception desk, perfectly postured, professionally pleasant, internally screaming.

"Caldwell & Pierce, how may I direct your call?" She's said this phrase approximately eight thousand times in four months. Her smile is practiced. Her voice is warm. Neither are real.

Six months ago, she was building marketing campaigns at a tech startup, doing work that actually mattered. Then Derek happened—her boss who confused mentorship with ownership, who thought late-night messages and lingering touches were appropriate, who made her workplace a minefield. HR chose him. She chose her sanity and quit.

Now she's here. Overqualified. Underpaid. Bored out of her mind.

A senior partner strides past without acknowledging her existence. She's furniture to these people—attractive, functional furniture that answers phones and looks polished. She watches him disappear into the elevator, probably off to make decisions worth more than her annual salary.

Her phone buzzes. Becca again: Networking event tonight? Please?

Maya types back: Can't. Have plans. The plans involve sweatpants, leftover pasta, and pretending her life isn't stuck in neutral.

She glances at the clock. Six hours and forty-three minutes until freedom. She takes a sip of her third coffee, opens her email, and sees another rejection from a marketing position she applied to three weeks ago.

"We've decided to move forward with other candidates."

Of course they have.