Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
The car banks gently, angling toward the Upper West Side. My building rises ahead of us—sixty stories of glass and steel, one of those new ultra-luxury towers that went up after the reconstruction. I own the whole building but reside in the penthouse. At first, it all belonged to Global, but I bought them out as soon as I hit billionaire status (the fourth billionaire since the economy’s collapse and rebuild). Didn’t want them to own everything in my life.
“I’m just saying,” Danny continues, “you could stand to give yourself some credit once in a while. When I was in Kandahar, I would’ve killed for a win like that. Three lives saved, zero casualties, minimal property damage. That’s a good day, man. That’s a great day.”
“Yeah, but you’re not bulletproof.”
“No, I’m sure not.” Danny grins. “I’m also ugly as sin and can’t fly. You’ve got me beat on all counts.”
I finally let out a laugh, shaking my head. Danny knows how to take self-deprecation to another level.
The car softly settles onto the landing pad on the building’s roof right above my penthouse. The city glitters below us, all those lights, all those people living their small, ordinary lives. I wonder sometimes what that’s like. I never got that chance, not even when I was young. At least I hope my childhood wouldn’t be considered ordinary.
Danny kills the engine—or whatever passes for an engine in a vehicle that runs on magnetic propulsion and costs more than a fighter jet—and turns to face me.
“Alright, here’s the part where I walk you to your door like you’re my prom date and make sure no one’s hiding in your bushes.”
“I don’t have bushes. I’m on the sixtieth floor.”
“Stop being so literal, smartass.” He pops his door and steps out onto the landing pad, and I follow. The wind is sharp up here, cutting through the October night. Danny hunches into his jacket while I don’t bother; the cold doesn’t touch me the way it once did.
We cross the rooftop to the private elevator that will take me down a couple floors to my penthouse, Danny’s footsteps echoing against the concrete while mine make no sound at all. I learned to move quietly a long time ago—back when being heard meant being found, and being found meant pain. The skills you learn when you’re young have a way of sticking around, even when you don’t need them anymore.
“You know,” Danny says as we reach the elevator, “the irony of me being your security detail is not lost on me.”
“What irony?”
“You’re practically indestructible. I’ve seen you shrug off half a falling building. What exactly am I supposed to protect you from?”
“Inconvenient conversations.”
“Ah. Small talk.” He nods sagely. “The real enemy.”
“You have no idea.”
The elevator opens, and I step inside. Danny doesn’t follow—this is where his job ends and my solitude begins. The line between friend and handler.
“Get some sleep,” Danny says, holding the door open with one hand. “And eat something. You look like shit.”
I snort. “Thanks, Danny.”
“That’s what I’m here for. Comfort and accountability and keeping that monstrous ego in check.” He steps back and lets the door slide closed between us. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Same time tomorrow.”
The elevator drops for a moment before the doors open to my apartment—my penthouse, my gilded cage—and I step inside.
The lights come on automatically, soft and warm, illuminating a space that looks like it belongs in a magazine spread. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, Italian leather furniture in tasteful greys, an enormous kitchen I barely use except for the occasional middle of the night grilled cheese, a bedroom I toss and turn in, guest rooms that never see any use, art on the walls someone else picked out because I couldn’t be bothered to have an opinion at the time.
The silence is so loud, it buzzes.
I stand in the entryway for a moment, letting the quiet settle around me. The mask is still on—I can feel it, that careful blankness I wear in public, the smile that automatically gets plastered across my mug to encapsulate my good boy persona—and it takes a conscious effort to let it slip. To unclench my jaw, drop my shoulders, stop performing for an audience that isn’t there.
And yet, somehow, I keep performing for myself.
The windows are dark mirrors at this hour, reflecting my own image back at me. I look tired, possibly even like shit, like Danny said. I look like exactly what I am, a man who caught a crane today and saved three lives and still feels hollow inside.
I move to the window and stand there, looking out at the city, all those lights, all those lives.
Wondering why I can’t feel any of it.
I sigh and eye the bar behind me. I watched alcohol rip my family apart and swore I’d never become like my mother. My conviction held up well too, until Emma died. Still, I never find relief in the bottle; it never helps me relax or escape, which is for the best when you’re essentially on-call 24/7 forever.