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Don’t read into it.
It’s the same old bullshit, just a different day.
Dad knows this is the best time to reach me, and he told his lawyer that.
He knows no one is here but me. Not much has changed since I used to work for him.
The phone rattles again. There’s something desperate to the sound of a call while the city sleeps. Almost eerie.
This time, I unplug the cord to the landline. The ensuing silence blankets me. I pretend, for a moment, my father never sold his soul. Or try to.
The past is so far removed from where we’re at, and I can no longer grasp it.
In his glory days, my father ran one of the most successful hedge funds in the city. Fuck city—he ran one of the largest funds in the world.
He made a lot of men very rich.
Made a lot of people very poor, too, as a direct result.
I’m not sure how it happened. One day, he could hop on a private jet to Saint Tropez for a quick dip in the ocean. The next, he couldn’t even afford an economy-class ticket to Florida. He lost it all.
Not just his money, either. Desperate to refill his coffers, he entered an underground poker game, sold his soul to the devil, and became a monster.
Raising my head, I pull at the roots of my hair and force the thought out of my head. The bitter aftertaste lingers, lacing with the scent of the office. Where traces of his betrayal seep into every inch, every second, every decision.
I still run a hedge. But instead of just getting money from trust-fund babies, I also house money for the scariest motherfuckers out there.
In the end, I ended up being no better than the man I hate.
Unlike him, I can sleep at night with my choices.
Which is ironic, since at the moment, I can’t relax, no matter how hard I try. The phone call from his lawyer stirred the pot I have long tried to forget.
I push up out of my chair and head to my private bathroom to throw on sweats, a T-shirt, and sneakers.
Going for a run will clear my brain.
This always happens whenever my shit of a father reaches out.
And like clockwork, he always does.
I take the private elevator that leads to the ground floor and nod to the doorman on duty on my way out of the building.
My feet hit the pavement, each step leading me farther from my office. Once they cross over Fifth Avenue and into the park, I’m off to a sprint, pushing myself at a speed that can’t be healthy.
The air against my face steadies me.
The adrenaline surprisingly calms my nerves.
I’m not sure how long I run, but my feet finally stop moving. The moment has come that I need to deal with the shitstorm that’s probably waiting for me. I turn to head back. The sun has risen past the horizon.
The only priority should be to make some fucking money and forget how this day started.
I’m only a block away from my building when my cell phone vibrates in my pocket.
Now it’s my mother.
“Mom,” I answer.
