The elevator opened, and Jacob burst out and strode towards Steve's office as if he were a villain from a slasher horror movie. His breath hung in the air, charged with frustration.The secretary stood up, making a feeble attempt to halt him. "Mr. Jacob, you cannot..."Without waiting for her to finish, he barged into Steve's office. "Sir!" Jacob blurted. "I have a complaint," he said, raising a letter in his hand. Steve took a shot of whiskey down his throat and walked to his chair. “It’s fine, Mrs. William; I’ve got this.” The secretary took a deep breath, looked to Jacob, then nodded before taking her leave. “So?”"Sir, I got a tarmination letter based on a link to the sub-urban real estate deal.” “And?”Jacob frowned a little shocked at the question, “Sir, except I wasn’t on the sub-urban real estate deal.”“So?”"So, sir, I got fired for something that has no link to me.”“But you aren’t innocent now, are you?” Steve raised an eyebrow."Sir, I do not understand.”"Oh, you do,

“Did you give it to him?” Mrs. King asked as Madi walked into the house, her face bare without make-up for the first time in a long time. "Yes, mom, I did,” She barely spoke up, her face buried behind her face cap. “Good, that peasant never deserved you in the first place,” Mrs. King said, settling down on a couch in the King-sized sitting room. Madi didn’t respond but continued to her room. “And where do you think you are going?" Mrs. King asked, her left eyebrow raised. She sighed, looked back to her mom and said, “It’s been a day. I think I need to take some time out.” “But you had a wonderful day, darling, breaking from that fool’s leash over you.” "Mum, that wasn’t even necessary. He was a good..."“Madi! You’d stop that nonsense talk immediately!” Mrs. King interrupted her. Her face was so still the smile that seemed to have had a permanent stay on her face varnished. Madi, stunned as she were, took a step backward from her mom, almost stumbled on her own foot. Mrs. King

Jacob fell to his couch. He had never been so grateful to be back to his studio apartment—even if he had a bandage around his chest and another slightly above his eyebrow. He could use a little of liquor if it wasn’t so fucking far off. “You should really change your locks,” Christine said, walking out of the shadows.Jacob jerked and the pain on his chest struck like lightening. He groaned, holding his rib. “For fuck sake!”“Jezz” Christine rushed to him, “What happened to you?” “I am okay…” Jacob raised his hand, stopping her from touching him. “I just need to rest.”“What you need is a doctor”“Close. It was a slight accident.”Accident, She froze, lips quivering and heart beating fast. She could hear the screeching sound of the tires and the blue and red lights. She could hear her name in a distance. It’s her mom. Next thing, flashing lights of the hospital as they pushed her bed. “Christine!” “Christine!” Jacob shouted her name the second time.She snapped out of it like wak

He entered his office, shut the door, pulled off his suit and threw it on the office couch before sitting. He looked into the mirror opposite the leather couch. His face was beginning to show more wrinkles and his hair was mostly gray yet he would make one of the fittest sixty-five-year-olds in the world. But beyond it, he could see his plan coming to an end. A knock hit his door. He looked at the door and asked who it was. It was Charlie. He opened the door and went back to sitting. “Tell me what all that was,” he said, his naturally baritone voice coming out husky.Charlie pushed his glasses closer to his face. He was already sweaty and shaking. "Sir, my sources said it was the same guy that saved her from the accident ten years ago.” He raised his head to look at Charlie. “How on earth did she find the guy?” “She had had a private detective looking for him for the past two years, sir,” Charlie said, his voice shaky. But that’s the way Charlie has always been around him. “Thi

Jacob sat with his hands clenched together in a corner of the giant sitting room. Different artworks, probably from the eighteenth century, hung on the wall: angry-looking paintings and heavily bearded sculptors of philosophers. But of all the paintings and sculptors, there was one that he could not get his eyes off. It hung slightly at a height of roughly three feet. The painted man had a fierce look that was not so different from the rest of them in the room, except this one was not from the eighteenth century. He looked different, except for the windpipe he held in his mouth. And the face looked like... “That is my father,” Christine said. Jacob turned. She was standing by the door frame. “I did not realize you were there.” “He looks scary, doesn’t he?” Christine said as she stretched a document to him before getting seated. “You know,” she continued, “sometimes I think it’s his fault I never found love. I mean, look at his face.” She laughed, then looked at the portrait.