New York’s skyline is a mistress not many architects get to dance with. The few who can are hailed as visionaries and masters of their craft, often by people whose pockets reach far deeper than their personalities. 

I stood in front of one of the many windows of the penthouse that I, along with many others, had been invited to. The sheer opulence the owner displayed was borderline sickening. Between priceless paintings, timeless artifacts that should reside in a museum and the fact that nigh every piece of furniture was older than most of the guests, it was clear the attendees weren’t your average Joe and Jane.

It was supposed to be a charity fundraiser, raising money and awareness to fund hospitals in some third world country I can’t even remember the name of.

Yeah, supposed to. I guess it hit the mark, but if the guests were truly interested in helping they wouldn’t wait for a fundraiser invitation to magically make its way into their mailbox.

My gaze swept the room and I saw nothing but old, wrinkled men accompanied by slightly less wrinkled women, all laughing and drinking from bottles that cost more than the waiters’ monthly salary.

I was no better than them, save for the old age and wrinkles. I hated how fake it all was, a facade that anyone with a working pair of eyes could easily see right through. No one wanted to be there, including me. I didn’t exactly have anything else planned, excluding spending the night chatting up a bottle of scotch like I desperately wanted to get in its pants. 

The corners of my mouth curled into a crooked smile as I nodded towards the umpteenth old man walking past me. In hindsight it must have looked anything but friendly, but I didn’t particularly care.

Manhattan had its fair share of pompous pricks, and that night they all decided to gather in one spot. All of them wearing tuxedos or expensive designer dresses, all of them pretending to care about some country they probably couldn’t even pinpoint on a map.

The fundraiser was just an excuse for those assholes to show up and feel better about themselves. It does say quite a lot about me, considering I was right there among them, and yet I felt decidedly out of place.

Perhaps it was the glaring age difference that separated me from the herd. At thirty-five years of age I was the youngest guest, which earned me quite a few strange looks. I simply shrugged it off and waited for that dreadful night to be over.

I let my guard down for a split second, just to get another glass of champagne. Big mistake. A gentle tap to my left shoulder informed me of the fact that someone was feeling chatty, and designated me as their victim.

Turning around, my gaze fell on a broad shouldered - and frankly, broad everything-ed - man. I had seen him once or twice, but our most memorable encounter was at my father’s funeral. Five long years ago.

I blinked and it felt like I traveled through time and space, the memories rushing back to the forefront of my mind. A sunny day on a grassy hill, ruined by rows of black cars forming a blockade in front of the cemetery. Those my father held dear, some would say, but they would be wrong. 

“Mister Harris, awfully sorry to hear about the dreadful news,” He said, respectfully bowing his balding head.

“Thank you, mister Reynolds. It’s been a tough week, but I’m sure we’ll come out on top,” I replied, faking a polite smile which seemed to go unnoticed.

That brief exchange got stuck in my mind, and how could it not? Behind his carefully constructed facade of grief,  his true colors shone brighter than the sun we stood beneath. I, or anyone else for that matter, could tell he was overjoyed at his rival’s demise.

Francis Reynolds knew my late father, perhaps even better than I did. Their lives shared a lot of similarities, down to the path that lead them to sit at the top of their companies. Both in the same sector, endlessly locked in  ruthless competition. 

I blinked again, and found myself back at the party.

“Mister Reynolds, good to see you here,” I greeted him, my words sounding about as warm as a Siberian Gulag. I wasn’t too fond of the man, but appearances had to be kept up.

He chuckles, reaching behind me to grab a glass of champagne. “This old lion can still roar, young man!”

I flashed him a smile and nodded slightly, the standard protocol I have been following throughout that entire night. “I don’t doubt it in the slightest.” I did, however. His declining health had been an open secret for quite some time. Above us, the vultures were already circling. Waiting.

It was right about that time that a mixture of strange feelings began swirling in my chest, indubitably aided by the alcohol I drank. “Well, have a nice night mister Reynolds.” 

The idea was to leave that dreaded party and simply go home to wash the stench of pretentious assholes off of me, maybe even get some sleep.  I turned towards the main door, intending on making a quiet exit that hopefully no one would notice. The old man, however, had different plans.

“Wait, Alexander, wait,” He called from behind me. I stopped dead in my tracks, my face flashing with an old, repressed anger that faded away just as quickly as it had appeared. “Yes?”

“Your father and I used to play poker together, care to join me for a few hands?” Reynold’s invitation seemed sincere enough to convince me, despite my aversion for games of chance. I much preferred testing my skills rather than my luck, but I accepted nonetheless. For charity, at first, but also because I didn’t mind seeing the old man lose.

Leaving the quiet chaos of the party behind we crossed the threshold into an adjacent room. The lights were dim, a stark contrast to the cheerful yet sophisticated ambiance of the main event.

The only bright source of light hung above an elegant round table. A man silently shuffled a deck of cards as two other conversed quietly, but fell silent once they heard our approaching footsteps.

They greeted Reynolds warmly, but offered me nothing but cold glares. In turn, I raised my eyebrows and flashed them what I commonly refer to as “fuck you smile” as I calmly walked to the table. 

Old man Reynolds took his place and I  mine, basking in the silence that permeated the room. Alas, it didn’t last.  It was evident these men were used to being in each other’s company, but my presence clearly offset the balance. 

Many commented on the similarities me late father and I shared, yet I simply couldn’t see any of them — and seemingly neither could the gentlemen sitting at the table.

The two didn’t introduce themselves and neither  did I, which prompted me to mentally address them by the color of their ties. Red and gray.  We didn’t have anything in common save for the fact that we had all been invited to the fundraiser, and I liked it that way. It simply wasn’t my crowd, if I even had one anymore.

Gray was the first to call it quits, storming off after angrily throwing his cards on the table. The look on the others’ faces hardly shifted, possibly indicating they had gotten used to seeing scenes such as that. These men had known each other for quite some time after all, and I couldn’t help but wonder if these habitual games used to have a different atmosphere when Harris senior sat at my chair.

Gray’s premature departure left only three of us at the table, without counting the waiter whom had  been deputized as a dealer. I must admit I wasn’t taking the game too seriously, but Reynolds and the man with the red tie surely were. Their stone cold face didn’t show any of the emotions they kept trapped inside, right beneath the scheming one needs to do during such games.

The jackpots were unusually low for people of this caliber. I knew Reynolds had more money than common sense, and the other man couldn’t be too far behind either. Still, I felt great pleasure in watching Reynold’s carefully built chip skyline crash and burn after each hand.

Red piped up after what felt like an eternity. “How’s Lucy, Francis?” He asked, probably trying to distract Reynolds as he carefully planned his next move. 

“Still searching for a job. That girl could give a mule a run for its money she’s so damn stubborn…” His mumbled reply caused Red to nod sympathetically as he folded.

“Thank God Matt’s not like that,” He chuckled, leaning back on his chair.

“But my little girl wants to follow her own path, and I can’t blame her for that. God knows ours is not the easiest.” Reynolds sighed and followed his friend in giving up the current hand.

I found myself agreeing with him, in principle.  The life of a CEO wasn’t exactly what most people think: while money did buy happiness, it often didn’t last. 

The game pressed on and I lost track of time. Red left shortly after my winning streak began, leaving only Reynolds to face off against me and Lady Luck.

The mountain of chips he had sitting in front of him had been razed to the ground while mine grew tall. The barely concealed anger over his imminent loss almost made me snicker, but I contained myself.

I wanted to end the night and go home, regardless of the game’s outcome. Pushing all my chips towards the center of the table, I uttered the two words that made Reynolds’ face lit up. “All in.”

He glanced at his cards and gave me a smirk before throwing what was left of his chips onto mine. The tension rose but I kept my cool — not because I knew I would win, I simply didn’t care.

“This takes me back,” He confessed, and added “Lord knows your father and I almost lost our companies around tables such as these.”

“Let’s do it then,” I declared. “Just for old times’ sake.”

Reynolds laughed, but his face turned serious right away. “Careful there, boy. Don’t write checks you can’t cash.”

“Oh, and you mentioned your… Daughter, I assume? My company has an open position we’d like to fill.” I knew that wouldn’t sit well, given the rivalry between my father and him.

That seemed to catch him by surprise. “Is that so? What kind of position would that be, Alexander?” The emotions he had been suppressing began to slip through the cracks, yet it was mostly rage mixed with an unhealthy dose of indignation.

“I do need a new secretary after the last one quit. Besides,  some first hand experience on how to run a successful company wouldn’t hurt.”  My lips curled into a sardonic smile as I watched Reynolds’ face become as red as the king and queen I held in my hand.

“Listen here you-”  All the restraint he had, gone in just a  second. Reynolds was a man of pride, and how dare I insinuate his company wasn’t successful. Well, I simply stated the truth.

“Add that to the pot. If I win, Lucy will have to work for me. Full benefits and insurance, just because it’s you. Deal?” I cocked my head to the side and stared at him. The old man’s brow furrowed and his lips pressed together to form a thin line, jaw clenched as tight as his fist. He wanted to react, there was no doubt about that. Yet the party was still ongoing, and causing a scene wouldn’t be the smartest of ideas. Besides, I towered over him.

“And what if you lose?”

“You’ll have a monopoly in your hands.” I rebutted right away. Our companies weren’t as big as, say, Apple or Microsoft, but we supplied both of them with components they could hardly get anywhere else. A merger would greatly benefit everyone involved in it, but business is never that easy.

I would have never gone that far into something that stupid just to provoke him, but what were the odds of him beating the royal flush in my hand?

Reynolds calmed down enough to agree, albeit reluctantly. “Fine. Let it be known, the Reynolds family never backs out of a challenge.”

I nodded, trying to remain passive as I suppressed a the urgency to laugh in his flustered face. “Show me what you got, then.”

We revealed our hands in unison. Reynold’s fist slammed against the table as he saw the beautiful sea of red that I had just laid down. The chips rattled and some of the towers I built fell, but that hardly mattered. He had lost, and much to no one’s surprise, wasn’t too graceful in defeat.

Standing up, I straightened my jacket. “Next Monday, half past eight,” I declared, and turned around to walk away before he even had a chance to reply. I heard him mutter something, but I couldn’t make out his words. The buzzing noise made by the other guests grew louder and louder still as I approached the door that would bring me back to the main event, even though I wouldn’t stay.

 

I made my way to the elevator without so much as saying goodbye to whoever the host was. A night of self indulgence thinly veiled under the guise of charity was more than I could handle as a somewhat sober man.

The ride took about a minute. As the doors opened I found myself staring at a garage filled to the brim with a wide variety of cars, the cheapest of which could be sold to fund at least a couple of those hospitals the host so desperately wanted to build. 

I made my way over to mine, which I recognized simply because my driver was leaning against it as he smoked a cigarette. He always did that to calm his nerves.

“Put that out, James, let’s go home.” I called, approaching him from behind. My voice echoed through the garage and startled him, though he recovered fairly quickly.

James Bartleby, he’s been with my family for so long; That man has seen his fair share of shit, courtesy of my late father. Even if the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, James has never shown anything but support — even in times where even I, looking back, would have punched my old self square in the jaw.

The somewhat triumphant expression on my face was enough for him to understand the night hadn’t been as bad as I thought it was going to be, and James was kind enough to spare me any questions.

He opened the rear passenger door of my black Mulsanne and closed it after I got in. The car was brand new, having been delivered just a week prior to that fundraiser, and its leather interiors still had that pristine smell to them. It would fade in time, but nothing ever lasts.

I kept my father’s old Rolls Royce in my personal garage, as a memento. It hadn’t been touched ever since the funeral, and I intended on keeping it that way. Him and I never quite saw eye to eye, but I can’t say the man didn’t have a refined taste for cars.

The engine roared to life and James drove us back to my residence. There weren’t many differences between daytime and nighttime New York. The streets were filled to the brim with people from every corner of the world, each with their own dreams and woes, walking — or driving — towards and away from God knows what. 

I glanced down at my phone and noticed the clock was just past midnight. I spent three hours in that penthouse, for some unknown reason. I could have just gone in and made a donation, yet the champagne made me stay and kept me company. I hadn’t even thought about Reynolds being there, but how could he miss a fundraiser organized by a dear friend of his?

All in all, that night hadn’t been a complete loss. Making the old man’s friend quit the table was amusing enough by itself, but that last hand truly sealed the deal.

It was true, I did need a new secretary. The last one resigned just a week prior to the party, and the position needed to be filled one way or another. Human Resources would probably find the best candidate — at least that’s what they kept telling me — but the prospect of having old man Reynold’s daughter at my beck and call was just too good to pass.

It was a spur of the moment kind of decision. Only later I realized it could bite me in the ass given how easy it would be to feed her father information about my company, straight from the source.  I did also recall how Reynolds mentioned she didn’t want to follow his footsteps and carve a path of her own, which reassured me things would be fine.

Besides, I could easily feed her false information to begin with and see how Reynolds senior reacted. I grinned and slumped onto the seat, my head tilted to the side as I stared out the window.

This city never slept and barely even rested. Its denizens always rushing somewhere, its lights always brighter than the sun and twice as annoying — New York wasn’t that friendly of a place to live in, but I had grown to love it over the years.

The drive lasted all of about twenty minutes, give or take. James and I parted ways once we reached my residence — An apartment on the Upper East Side, just a couple blocks away from Central Park. 

The receptionist nodded at me and I replied in kind while speeding towards the elevator. I pushed the button to the ninth floor and relaxed once the doors closed, knowing I had nothing scheduled for the upcoming weekend. 

Relax was something I was in desperate need of. Leading a company as big as Harris Electronics wasn’t something one could do part time, as my father demonstrated throughout the years. The stress consumed him, ate away at him, day after day, until it spat out a vicious viper of a man with more enemies than friends.

I won’t lie and say that prospect didn’t scare me — it did, even if I didn’t have a family to go back to after a long day at the office. No one was anxious or happy to see me, and if bottles could talk, they’d probably begin screaming in horror as soon as they heard the lock turn in its socket. 

Sudden bouts of hypothetical animism aside, it still felt good to be home.