I stepped into the empty, velvet-lined elevator cab and turned to face her.
"I'm going to the 40th floor, Elena," I said softly.
Her eyes widened in real fear.
"Marcus, please. Richard has changed everything. He changed the security codes. He locked down David's old office. You can't just go up there."
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my old, black master keycard.
"I built this tower," I reminded her, swiping the card over the sensor panel.
The scanner beeped a sharp green note.
The button for the 40th floor illuminated in bright blue.
Elena opened her mouth to warn me again, but the heavy gold doors slid shut, cutting her off.
I was alone as the high-speed elevator launched me toward the top of the tower.
My stomach plummeted as the floors ticked away on the digital display above the door.
Twenty. Thirty. Thirty-five.
When the doors finally chimed and parted on the 40th floor, a wave of cold, stagnant air washed over me.
The hallway was dimly lit, the plush carpets silent beneath my heavy boots.
I walked slowly past Richard's massive double doors, heading straight for the far end of the corridor.
David’s office.
The brass nameplate was still bolted to the heavy mahogany door: David Vance - Vice President of Operations.
My hand trembled slightly as I gripped the handle.
I expected it to be locked.
I expected to have to use force.
But the door was slightly ajar.
I pushed it open silently, stepping into the dark, expansive room overlooking the Chicago skyline.
The office had been perfectly preserved, like a museum exhibit dedicated to a dead man.
But something was wrong.
A desk lamp was clicked on, casting a harsh pool of yellow light across David's massive oak desk.
Standing behind the desk, frantically tearing through the bottom drawer, was a figure in a dark suit.
They froze as the floorboards creaked under my boots.
The figure turned slowly toward the light.
It was Elena.
She was clutching a thick, red file folder against her chest, her breathing shallow and ragged.
But I had just left her on the ground floor.
Unless she had taken the dedicated emergency service elevator to beat me up here.
"Marcus," she breathed, taking a terrified step back against the glass window. "You don't understand what you're doing.
I stood frozen in the doorway, my fingers gripping the handle of my old leather bag so tightly my knuckles ached.
The heavy mahogany door clicked shut behind me, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the massive, dimly lit office.
Elena pressed her back against the floor-to-ceiling window, the sweeping, glittering lights of the Chicago skyline offering a stark contrast to the terror etched across her face.
I stared at her, my mind struggling to process the impossible timeline.
I had just left her standing in the lobby.
The executive elevator I took was the fastest in the building, a private carriage reserved only for the founders.
There was only one way she could have beaten me to the 40th floor.
She had to have immediately sprinted to the service elevator, bypassing the security protocols, rushing desperately to get into David's office before I did.
The profound respect and concern she had shown me downstairs was a theatrical distraction.
It was a calculated stall tactic.
"What are you doing, Elena?" I asked, my voice dangerously low, the rumbling anger from the lobby returning in full force.
She swallowed hard, her eyes darting nervously toward the heavy oak desk between us.
"Mr. Vance, I was just... preparing the office," she stammered, her voice lacking the sharp, authoritative edge she had used against the guard downstairs.
"Richard requested that I secure the room. He knew you were in the building. He wanted everything perfectly in order for you."
It was a blatant, desperate lie.
I took a slow, deliberate step forward, my heavy boots sinking into the thick, expensive carpet.
"You ran up the service shaft to 'prepare' a room that hasn't been touched in five years?" I asked, my eyes dropping to her hands.
She was clutching a thick, heavy file folder wrapped in bright red cardboard.
Her knuckles were white from the strain of holding it so tightly against her chest.
Across the top of the folder, printed in bold, black block letters, I could read the title.
Structural Integrity Discrepancies - Tower B.
Tower B was the new, massive residential expansion project our company had broken ground on shortly before David died.