Page 1 of Where Light Cannot Follow

PART I

“This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper.”

—T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men

1

DANTE

Slushy rain pelts across the panoramic windows, blurring the Manhattan skyline into a smear of light. I twist my wrist, the gleaming silver watch face catching the artificial glow of my office. My assistant is five minutes late. The watch tick-ticks against my pulse, its steady rhythm a counterpoint to the distant laughter, the unearned revelry bleeding through the walls.

I hate this time of year. A season when chaos possesses otherwise rational beings. Meetings canceled with vague excuses, markets closed on arbitrary days, and the break room constantly reeking of cinnamon and refined sugar, as if the people occupying this temple of commerce actually believe in the religion this ridiculous holiday espouses.

I turn to once again face the windows as the rain transforms before my eyes and crystallizes into sleet that strikes the glass. The streets below will become treacherous, leading to wrecks. Clogged roads. Family emergencies.

Excuses. Always excuses for why people can't function efficiently in December.

A clatter tears me from my thoughts. Ms. Hernandez appears in the doorway, wobbling on heels that add unnecessary height to her frame. Her emerald sweater sparkles under the office lights, offsetting dark hair she’s curled into ringlets. For a moment—just a breath—something fractures at the edges of her outline.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Dante," she says, breathless. "I got pulled into the building's holiday party."

"You got pulled in," I repeat, my voice firm but not angry. I am not a man who gives in to deep emotions; those cause nothing but trouble, just like this damned holiday.

"Am I understanding correctly, Ms. Hernandez, that someone physically grabbed your body and forced you into a party?" Before she can interject, I continue, "If so, you should make a statement with HR. It's not something we permit."

Her mouth opens and closes. I wish she wouldn’t say whatever pointless thoughts float through her mind.

I don't have time for such amusements. Have long since learned to discipline my mind, to wrap emotions under a silky shroud of reality, entombing them like pharaohs.

Sometimes growth begins by trimming away the old. As I stare at the glittering, holiday-decked version of my personal assistant, I wonder if this is the growth I need heading into the new year.

Finally, she finds her voice and clears it, then bows her head. "I apologize, Mr. Dante. I let time get away from me. I am off the clock."

"Yet I'm not. You asked to meet me at 7 PM sharp. It is now 7:09. Do you want to explain why you've wasted ten minutes of my time?"

The woman looks very much like she does not, in fact, wish to explain, but she takes a deep breath, tangles her fingers together, and stiffens her spine. As if that false bit of confidence could overcome the way she fidgets, the way her teeth catch her lip. The smell of floral perfume and festive food still lingering on her. I suspect if I draw close enough, there will be alcohol tinging her breath. Truly a waste of a good mind to dilute it for a moment's pleasure.

“It's about my mother, Mr. Dante."

I can hardly fight the scoff that slips through my lips. Her mother is not my problem. I have real concerns that demand my attention—my forty-eight employees, the billion-dollar firm resting on my shoulders. Ensuring our positions remain protected against market volatility and regulatory overreach. These are matters worthy of my consideration.

I choose against responding and instead only glare at my assistant, who has so much potential, but so little ability to follow through.

Finally, the discomfort does what it always does to people who cannot control their own minds. She brushes a curl behind her ear and breaks the silence. "I've mentioned to you that my mother isn't doing well, Mr. Dante."

"You have." My response is formal, clipped even. I do not see it as a compliment that she has shared personal drama at the workplace.

"I was hoping to ask for an exception for working tomorrow, being as it's a federal holiday... sir." She speaks quickly and seems to tack the final word on as an afterthought.

I take a deep breath before responding. She has potential but no focus; she could become a trader herself, earn more than her scarcely six-figure salary, but she gives herself away to emotions too often, to familial demands pulling on her.

I check my watch once more. Seventeen minutes wasted on this. Some nonsensical Christmas song hums in the background, and people give up a cheer. Ridiculous. Very few in this building, outside of my own firm, have a reason to celebrate. It has been a down year with tight margins.

"Ms. Hernandez, our firm is working tomorrow. The Nikkei is open. If you're wishing to put in your notice, please let me know so I can make arrangements to replace you by the new year."

Her fingernails—painted a garish red but chipped at the edges—catch my eye as she fidgets, cheap costume bracelets clanking against her wrist. In finance, details matter. Precision matters. Her hands tell the story of someone who starts things but fails to maintain them properly.

"Mr. Dante, I've shown nothing but loyalty to this firm in the almost five years I've worked for you. Can I not have one exception? This may very well be my mother's last Christmas."