Page 4 of My CEO Neighbor
Her phone showed a text from her best friend Mal:Coffee later?I have gossip about Derek.
Derek was Mal's on-again, off-again boyfriend who treated relationships like a hobby he practiced badly.Monica typed back:Can't today.Teaching at the beach, then evening class at the studio.Tomorrow?
The response came immediately:You work too much.
Monica stared at the text, struck by its unintentional irony.She worked too much?She taught twelve yoga classes per week and ran meditation circles twice monthly.Compare that to her neighbor in 12A, who apparently never left his apartment except to drive somewhere in his obnoxiously loud car.
Speaking of which.
Monica found herself listening for the familiar sound of Theodore Corwin's voice through their shared wall.When had that become part of her morning routine?She caught herself straining to hear whether he was awake yet, then felt annoyed at her own curiosity.
There it was—the low rumble of his voice as he paced his living room, barking into his phone about "market penetration" and "user acquisition metrics."Despite her irritation with the timing, Monica had to admit his voice was actually quite attractive when he wasn't shouting.Deep and authoritative, with just a hint of roughness that suggested too much coffee and not enough sleep.
Stop it,Monica told herself.She didn't care what Theodore Corwin sounded like.
But she did wonder what drove someone to work such insane hours.She'd glimpsed him in the hallway a few times over the past months, always in those perfectly tailored suits that probably cost more than her monthly rent, always carrying himself with the kind of controlled urgency that made her wonder what he was running from.Dark hair that looked like he'd been running his hands through it, and eyes that held the hollow intensity of someone who'd forgotten the difference between ambition and desperation.
He was handsome, she'd give him that.Probably devastatingly so when he wasn't wearing stress like a second skin.
Definitely not my type,Monica thought, then wondered why she'd considered his type at all.And why she found herself listening for his voice every morning like some kind of corporate-obsessed meditation bell.
His voice carried despite the building's supposed noise barriers.He had disrupted her morning practice three times last week, but she'd started to recognize the rhythm of his calls—usually around six-thirty, lasting about twenty minutes, always ending with what sounded like frustrated sighs.
What kind of business required that level of intensity?What was he so afraid of losing?
She'd called the building manager twice about the noise ordinance.Quiet hours officially lasted until seven a.m., but Theodore seemed to believe his business took precedence over everyone else's peace.
Her morning smoothie contained spinach, banana, almond milk, and a scoop of plant-based protein powder that tasted like disappointment mixed with good intentions.Monica drank it while checking her schedule for the day, trying not to calculate how much each class needed to earn to cover her mounting expenses.
Beach yoga at eight-thirty, which meant leaving her apartment by eight-fifteen to set up.Private session with Margaret in 12D at ten for anxiety management through breathwork.Lunch with her mother, who would spend two hours explaining why Monica's lifestyle choices were "impractical for finding a serious relationship."Afternoon classes at the studio—if she could keep affording the rent—then evening meditation circle for her regulars.
A full day of helping other people find balance while her own life felt increasingly lopsided.Financially and otherwise.
Monica gathered her teaching supplies: two yoga mats, a portable speaker, lavender eye pillows for final relaxation, and the singing bowl that apparently drove Theodore Corwin into apoplectic rage.She'd started using it specifically for morning practice after his payback noise complaint, because some battles were worth fighting.
And because, if she was being honest, she was curious to see how he'd react.His intensity intrigued her, even as it annoyed her.
The elevator down to the lobby was blissfully quiet.Monica preferred taking the stairs, but carrying equipment made that impractical.The Dexter Towers attracted young professionals who kept busy schedules, rushing to jobs that consumed their lives while complaining about feeling disconnected from purpose.Monica understood the complaints, even if she didn't understand the choices.
Her Subaru started on the second try, which counted as a victory considering its age and her inability to afford major repairs.The drive to Golden Gardens passed quickly through empty streets, past coffee shops that wouldn't open for another hour and office buildings where people like Theodore Corwin probably slept at their desks.
People who could afford to live in the Dexter Towers but chose to work themselves into the ground anyway.What kind of success was worth that level of self-destruction?
The beach was Monica's favorite teaching location.Practicing yoga beside water felt ancient and necessary, like humans had been stretching their bodies toward sky and sea since the beginning of consciousness.Her regular students loved the outdoor classes despite Seattle's weather unpredictability.
Six students showed up for class, her regulars plus one newcomer who looked nervous about practicing outside.Monica guided them through a gentle flow, matching their movements to the rhythm of waves.
"Breathe into the space between your shoulder blades," she called over the sound of water."Let the exhale carry away whatever you don't need to hold today."
During the final relaxation, Monica rang her singing bowl three times.The sound floated across the beach like a prayer made audible, and she watched the tension leave her students' faces.This was magic that mattered, not the manufactured urgency of corporate deadlines, but the ancient alchemy of breath and presence.
Take that, Theodore Corwin and your six a.m.conference calls.
After class, Monica packed up slowly.The beach felt peaceful in a way that made returning to the city seem like a small betrayal.But Margaret was waiting for their private session, and Monica's rent didn't pay itself.Neither did her student loans, her car payment, or the credit card bills she'd been strategically ignoring.
The drive back to the Towers took longer in the morning traffic.Monica's radio played indie folk that matched her mood, wistful and wondering about roads not taken.Sometimes she envied people who'd chosen conventional paths with their steady jobs, predictable relationships, and retirement plans that didn't require miracles.
People like Theodore Corwin, who probably never worried about making rent.
