He typed back: On my way. Love you.
He typed: Everything.
He tucked the letter back into his pocket, leaned his head against the cold glass, and began to plan his next move.
She waited for silence, then spoke.
Marcus felt a flicker of empathy, then buried it. On Wall Street, you ate what you killed. And right now, he was trying to figure out if $2.1 million was a feast or just a very large meal.
Then he deleted it and wrote instead: Bonus cut. Tell you tonight.
Marcus Deane, a 34-year-old vice president in structured credit at the investment bank Sterling & Hale, hadn’t slept more than three hours. He’d been up since 4:00 a.m., staring at the ceiling of his Tribeca loft, running numbers in his head. Not bond spreads or volatility indexes—his own numbers. His bonus was the only number that mattered now. wall street paytime
“Come in.”
Marcus closed the door. “I want to talk about my future.”
“I know what day it is,” Victoria said. “And I know many of you are already planning how to spend your bonuses. But I need to tell you something before you leave this room.” He typed back: On my way
Marcus’s boss, Julian Thorne, stood by the window with his back to the floor. Julian was a legend—fifty-two years old, three divorces, and a bonus every year that could buy a small Caribbean island. He didn’t turn around when Marcus approached.
He stepped outside into the cold. His phone buzzed. Elena again: Whatever happened, come home. We’ll figure it out.