Scrooge

5. Alexander

5

ALEXANDER

I look straight out at the gray mass of clouds hanging low in front of my window. Sweat drips down my back as the treadmill slows, my five miles now done for the day, finishing off with my fitness session of weights. I exercise daily, needing the stress relief and the mental clarity; otherwise, I would probably have a heart attack just like my father did.

My watch beeps, taking my attention. It is exactly nine a.m., my day moving on schedule.

I walk through my penthouse, the dark clouds following my every move, cloaking each window. The whole penthouse is gray, as is my life lately. It’s quiet, except for my hard breathing, and I grab a fresh green juice from the kitchen, feeling parched.

“Do you need anything else this morning, Mr. Jackson?” Mary, my housekeeper, asks from where she stepped out of her small office. Looking around, I spot the counters are clean and reflective. Every surface, every application shining. Nothing is out of the ordinary, nothing different. Yet it isn’t feeling the same. I look back at Mary. She organizes my home life. Cooking, cleaning, and is at my beck and call for all things. She is dressed the same, looks the same. Yet I know nothing much about her.

“Are you married, Mary?” I ask her out of the blue. Her eyebrows rise, seemingly shocked.

“Um, yes. My husband works in construction.” She nods, and I nod back. The question doesn’t feel as foreign as it would have yesterday. Perhaps I am making progress.

“You can go,” I tell her, and she looks at me with pity for a moment before she grabs her things and leaves. I turn and walk straight to my home office, as work is what my weekends usually consist of. I am not going to advance the business without putting in the hours, and for months, I have remained laser focused on my goal. To develop more properties than anyone else in this country.

I get busy, looking quickly through my emails before I hit the shower, when I spot one from Sheridan. Subject line: Holiday Proposal . My eyes run over the words quickly as I open it.

A holiday party in Central Park.

Food stands and performers.

Charity giving for children.

Gifts for all the kids from Tucker Toys.

Tucker Toys?

My teeth grind as I think about that store and the feisty woman who looked like a drowned rat yesterday as she jumped out of that shop and into my path. She was striking, even if her hair was frizzing and plastered against her face due to the rain. It was beautiful, as were her eyes that were full of fire and life. She was shorter than me by a few inches, yet there was so much energy to her that it made it difficult for me to walk away. I don’t know her, yet she didn’t cower from me like everyone else seems to when I meet them. In fact, she insulted me. What even is a dickwad?

Her toy store was quiet, but business must be booming for them if they can keep up with my leasing increases. I need to speak to my leasing manager about it. Because where they are is prime real estate and I want to ensure we are covered.

Grabbing my cell, I call Sheridan.

“I got your proposal,” I say before she even has time to talk.

“Good morning, Alexander,” she says cheerily, and I can hear chatter and noise in the background.

“This party looks like more than just a few hors d’oeuvres in the staff kitchen…” I grind out, looking at the number on the proposal. It is high, and I don’t like to spend money frivolously.

“We need to raise your profile both internally and externally as a great leader and a giving person. Right now, investors are only working with you for the financial element and staff are walking. Plus, we need to lift your profile from the playboy bachelor tag that you have been given to something a little more stable.” Clearly, her bravado is not just reserved for in my office.

“So?” I ask, leaning back, feeling unsettled. I should be in my shower about now.

“So, like I said in your office, you catch more bees with honey,” she quips, and my shoulders rise in agitation.

“What the fuck does that even mean?”

“It means, if we can raise your profile as a charming, personable, community-minded leader, then the city, the people, and business associates will be more open to working with you. Next year, you have big plans for disruption, so you could use all the brownie points you can get before then.”

I glance back at the screen, looking over the proposal again.

Buy toys for all the families.

Sponsor more community sports.

Give to charity.

“I'm charming,” I murmur, thinking about my run-in with the woman at the toy store. I was charming to her, wasn’t I? I date women, and they all giggle and swoon around me. Sure, they see dollar signs, but I am not a total ogre. I don’t think…

She huffs from the other end of the phone.

“What?” I ask, intrigued by her take on me. I know I can be a little gruff. But all my life, I have strived to be perfect for my father, and now I need to ensure things are perfect in his legacy.

“What are you doing now?” she asks, and I look around my home office.

“It’s Saturday. I'm working. Why?” I ask, affronted.

“Ask me what I am doing.”

I huff. I hate playing games.

“What are you doing?” I relent.

“I am at my kids’ soccer game,” she says, and my eyebrows rise.

“You have a kid?” I ask, surprised.

“Two of them. I asked you to sponsor their team, remember? You promised to think about it and maybe come to their finals to bestow a gift to the club and present the trophies, or did you forget?”

I rub my eyes as I try to remember. I have no idea what she is talking about.

“I don’t recall that conversation,” I murmur, wondering how much that is going to cost.

“That’s my point. You don’t know your people. They need to see your face. Your father was—”

“Leave him out of it,” I snap, the sudden onslaught of responsibility he left me with, mixed with grief I have yet to process even almost a year later, feels like a tsunami about to crash over me.

“Fine. Just approve the holiday party so you seem like a nice person, even if we all know you are just a Scrooge,” she says before ending the call, and I am left looking blankly at the screen. My watch beeps.

It’s already ten, and my morning has turned to shit. Fucking perfect.