1
NICK
Ipress my forehead against the floor-to-ceiling window of my penthouse at Park Towers, which overlooks Central Park. It’s cold to the touch. The early morning traffic fills the streets below, and I can see people walking on the sidewalks in a line like tiny ants. The sun is just beginning to rise, but this city never sleeps. Shit, I barely do these days.
It’s mid-September, and the leaves are preparing to change from green to orange and yellow—a sign that fall has arrived. Unlike my siblings, I grew up in the suburbs, where harvest festivals, hayrides, and pumpkin patches were a regular part of our weekends. In the heart of the city, there’s only steel and glass and a billion-dollar view that might as well be a prison. Some days, I feel like a damn robot, going through the motions of life.
I was convinced that living in this luxury high-rise with this view would make me happy. My brothers, Asher and Dyson, have penthouses here, along with many of my friends and acquaintances. However, this place has only made me feel lonely.
I’m convinced nothing can make me happy anymore. Hockey did at one point, until I tore my ACL for the thirdtime and had a hard recovery. That’s when I knew I’d never play again. The game was my everything.
Money sure as fuck doesn’t make me happy, and probably never will. Undoubtedly, it might make some parts of my life easier, but the attention it carries isn’t always worth it. There should be balance, but like most things, I don’t have any, and unfortunately, I don’t care anymore.
The thirty-thousand-dollar Italian espresso machine that my older brother, Dyson, insisted I buy hisses behind me. It’s the third shot I’ve brewed this morning, and so far, I haven’t touched a single one. They’re lined up on the marble counter resembling tiny monuments, showcasing my disinterest in everything.
Every autumn, I’m like this. Ever since my sister, Eden, passed away, I can’t avoid it. I was hoping this year would be different. So far, it’s not.
I suck in a deep breath, and I catch my reflection in the window.
I’m wearing a designer suit, perfectly tailored for me, while sporting five days of stubble that’s transitioned from sexy but trying to not giving a single fuck. I have a neck beard, for crying out loud. The thought makes me groan. The man staring back at me used to be a hockey league defenseman for the New York Angels—one of the most successful teams of this decade. Five years ago, I had fire in my eyes and ice in my veins. Now I’m just another hollow-eyed billionaire who forgot what winning feels like.
Eden would hate this for me.
Memories of my sister flood in; losing her isn’t something I will ever just get over. Even though it’s been years, somehow, her opinions still affect my life choices. I lost one of my best friends.
I can almost hear Eden’s voice.“Nicky, you’re pathetic. Look at you, turning into one of those rich, boring assholes we always made fun of as teenagers.”
I fucking am.Shit.
Not long after she was gone, I spiraled. I made bad decisions,was selfish, and nearly destroyed my friendship with my childhood best friend, Zane. I didn’t respect myself or like the man I’d become. Even now, we’re still repairing our friendship, and one day, I hope it will be a fraction of what it was before I messed up. Worst mistake of my life. I was in a bad place, and what I did was inexcusable; however, I was also taken advantage of when I was at my weakest. Two things can be true at the same time.
My phone buzzes, and the monthly reminder flashes across the screen.
Donate to Eden’s favorite literacy program.
I tap through to the notification without thinking, bumping this month’s donation from fifty thousand to one hundred thousand. The foundation has put libraries near twelve inner-city schools this year. Eden would’ve visited each one and read to every kid who listened.
I stare at the confirmation screen until it blurs. This is what I do now. Write checks to fill the crater my sister left behind. I throw money at my problems because facing them would be me admitting too much.
The espresso machine gurgles one last time and falls silent, just like everything else in this place.
I line the shots up like they’re tequila and take all three. My phone dings, letting me know that the driver is downstairs, waiting to deliver me to the office. I grab my briefcase and leave.
When I arrive at Banks Advertising and Marketing Firm, it’s as quiet as a morgue. I enter the conference room for our first meeting today and sit next to Asher.
“Good morning, all,” Mr. McDaniels says.
He’s the young CEO of a new start-up for a revolutionary app, and he needs our company to help boost him to the stratosphere, because that’s what we do. We can make or break anyone of any size in any industry. This kind of power comes with great responsibility, one neither Asher nor I take lightly.
The overhead lights reflect off the polished black table, and if I hear Mr. Big Mac say this app will disrupt human connection one more time, I might lose my cool. He’s twenty-six, wearing sneakers that cost more than most people’s rent, and he keeps using the wordssynergyandvibelike they’re going out of style.
“The beauty of our platform,” he says, clicking through slides that hurt my eyes, “is that we’re removing the inefficiencies of traditional human interaction.”
Something inside me snaps.
Maybe I’ve had too much espresso, and it’s finally hit my bloodstream, or I’m over this shit. Or maybe how he reduced human connection to an algorithm pissed me off.
“Stop.” The word comes out harsher than I intend.
