Boston looks different from fifty-two floors up. The city stretches out like a miniature model someone spent way too much time detailing. All those tiny cars and ant-people going about their important little lives. Meanwhile, I'm up here watching the world through floor-to-ceiling glass, feeling like I'm floating above my own life. The PRUDENTIAL sign reads backward from this side, like everything else in my world right now.
I press my forehead against the cool glass. Two years of engagement. Six years together. And Stacey just... decided she wanted more. Whatever the hell "more" means when you've already promised someone forever.
God, and I just know tomorrow I've gotta drag myself back into that office and start dialing again. Cold-calling companies that are doing just fine without me, pretending I believe in this bloated, useless AI suite we're pushing like it's the second coming.
"Vince, come on, man."
Jake's voice behind me pulls me out of my working nightmare. "Why is it every time you get bad news I have to pay fifteen dollars and take an elevator to the top of Boston?"
I don't turn around. "She dumped me, man."
A beat of silence. Then, "No... not Stacey?"
"Yeah." The word feels hollow in my mouth.
Jake moves beside me, his reflection appearing in the glass. His usually cheerful face has gone serious. "Shit, Vince. I thought you two were solid."
"So did I." I finally turn away from the view. "She said she 'realized she wanted someone more than me.' Direct quote."
Jake's face twists into a scowl. "What a rusty bitch."
I sigh, turning back toward the window. Boston continues to exist below us, oblivious to my personal apocalypse.
"You're better off, man," Jake says, placing a hand on my shoulder. "If she didn't pull this shit now, it would've been years down the line with a mortgage and maybe kids. Would've hurt a lot more."
"Yeah..."
"Plus, you dodged a bullet." Jake taps the glass with his knuckle. "Stacey hated popcorn."
I nod slowly. "I know."
My breath clouds the glass, creating a small foggy patch on the pristine surface. I trace an absent pattern with my fingertip, feeling suddenly, achingly empty.
"Just once, man," I whisper, "I want that overwhelming love. I want someone to really, really want me. The way I want them back, you know? Like they get jealous if I talk to a waitress for too long or they try to get me to cut my family off."
Jake laughs, the sound bouncing off the glass. "You already cut your mom out."
"I know, but wouldn't it be cool if a woman made me do that?" I grin despite myself.
Jake shakes his head, smiling. "Someday, man... I just know. All your dreams are going to come…"
A scream cuts through the observation deck. I cock an eyebrow and look toward the sound.
A semi-truck… An actual fucking semi-truck, is flying through the air, right toward our window.
"What the fuck," I manage, time stretching like taffy.
I don't think. I just move, shoving Jake as hard as I can. He stumbles backward, his face transforming into pure horror as I stand frozen in place.
The last thing I see is my own shocked reflection in the truck's chrome grill before it crashes through the glass, into me.
Then nothing.
*****
Muffled voices penetrate the darkness behind my eyelids, pulling me back to consciousness like I'm swimming up from the bottom of a murky lake.
"I just transferred you the money right now, Ms. Hill, with that your son is finally legally dead. You'll be able to claim his life insurance as soon as our doctor clears his death certificate to you."
"Oh how exciting! I never thought it would be this easy."
My eyelids flutter open, vision blurry at first. The harsh fluorescent light above makes me wince. I'm lying on something hard, a medical table? My head throbs with each heartbeat.
Mom stands a few feet away, her back partially turned to me. She's talking to a blonde woman in a crisp pantsuit who's holding a Dunkin' coffee cup. Mom looks... happy? That can't be right. She hasn't looked happy around me since I was maybe ten.
When Mom notices my open eyes, her expression shifts instantly to annoyance. She turns to the blonde woman.
"You told me he wouldn't wake up this soon," she says, accusation sharp in her voice.
The blonde woman doesn't even flinch. "It's irrelevant to you," she replies coolly. "In fact, you should leave now."
Mom nods, shoulders relaxing. "Fair enough."
And just like that, she turns to go. No goodbye. No explanation. Nothing. Just the back of her jacket as she walks out the door, practically bouncing with each step. I've never seen her look so... unburdened.
The blonde woman approaches my table, her heels clicking against what I now see is a polished concrete floor. We're in some kind of industrial-looking room. No windows, minimal furniture, just medical equipment and steel.
"How the fuck did I survive?" I croak, my throat dry as sandpaper.
She cocks her head slightly. "The sidewalk?"
"No, when the building got hit with a fucking truck?" I try to sit up, but my body feels like it's made of lead.
"Mr. Hill, I have no idea what you're talking about." Her voice is measured, professional.
"I got hit by a semi. At the top of the Prudential building." The memory flashes through my mind, the chrome grill, the shattering glass, Jake's horrified face.
The woman stares at me, her blue eyes clinical. "That's not what happened to you."
"Well, what did happen then?"
"You slipped off a sidewalk and got a concussion." She takes a sip of her coffee. "And then your mother sold you. You'll never see your wives again. Your life belongs to my employer now."
I blink. A lot. My brain feels like it's buffering.
"I feel a bit lost right now," I finally say. "Did you say wives?"
"Yes."
"I'm not married."
"It doesn't matter." She shrugs. "You're probably suffering memory loss from your concussion, but it changes nothing."
I stare at her, trying to make sense of any of this. "Who are you?"
"Emily."
"Who do you work for?"
"I can't say."
The frustration bubbles up inside me like a shaken soda can ready to explode. I'm being stonewalled at every turn, and it's making my already pounding headache worse.
"What the fuck do you mean my mom sold me?" I snap, my voice echoing in the sterile room. "I'm twenty-eight years old. An adult! She doesn't have any legal right to sell me to anyone!"
Emily takes another casual sip from her coffee cup, completely unfazed by my outburst. "I saw the records myself, Mr. Hill. A healthy man entering a hospital in the city. I saw a woman who looked exactly like someone who would sell a story for cash." She shrugs like we're discussing the weather. "And that's exactly what happened."
"I'm not a piece of meat!" I try to sit up straighter, wincing at the pain shooting through my temples. "You think I'm just going to take this sitting down?"
She sighs, the sound dripping with condescension. "You're just a weak little man, Vincent. Don't make this harder on yourself." Her blue eyes narrow slightly. "If I bruise you, my boss will be mad with both of us."
That's it. I've had enough of this cryptic bullshit. I look down at my arms, noticing the monitoring wires attached to my skin for the first time. I reach to rip them off, but Emily's hand clamps around my wrist before I can even touch them.
Her grip is firm but not painful, and completely immovable. I strain against her hold, but it's like trying to bend steel with my bare hands. She doesn't even look like she's exerting effort.
"Why the fuck are you so strong?" I demand, staring at her slim fingers wrapped around my wrist.
"You'll find out when you meet my boss," she says with the faintest hint of amusement.
Something in me snaps. "MY FIANCÉE JUST BROKE UP WITH ME!" I shout, my voice cracking. "AND I STILL HAVE TO GO TO WORK TOMORROW! AND NOW I HAVE TO DEAL WITH THIS FUCKING BULLSHIT!"
Emily releases my wrist and takes a step back. "You don't work, Mr. Hill," she says flatly.
"I FUCKING WISH I DIDN'T WORK, BUT…"
"Stop screaming," she cuts me off, her tone sharp as a blade. "And even if you did have a job, it's over. Your life is forfeit. You don't work anymore."
I blink, the rush of anger suddenly giving way to a bizarre sense of relief.
"Wait... no more sales calls?" I ask, the thought hitting me like an unexpected gift.
Emily's eyebrows lift slightly. "I guess? If that's what you think you did?"
I lean back against the medical table, considering this new reality. The cold steel feels almost comforting now. No more forcing myself to sound enthusiastic about products I couldn't care less about. No more fake smiles through phone calls.
"Perhaps getting bought isn't so bad after all," I muse, half to myself.
Emily stares at me, her expression shifting from professional detachment to pure exhaustion. She pinches the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes for a moment.
"Are you going to be a pain in my ass the whole time?" she asks, her voice flat but with a hint of genuine fatigue.
I meet her gaze steadily, the ghost of a smile playing at my lips. "That feels like it's up to you."