Chapter 1: The High-Altitude Silence
The ink in my fountain pen was poised to finalize a twelve-million-dollar acquisition for the Sterling Heights development when the vibration hummed against my mahogany desk. In the sterile, high-altitude silence of my corner office on the 48th floor, the sound was as jarring as a fire alarm. I frowned, my focus flickering for a split second as I looked at the sprawling grid of Chicago below, the city I was effectively rebuilding one city block at a time.
I glanced down. A message from my mother illuminated the screen, the blue light reflecting off the sapphire crystal of my watch. The words were brief, but they carried the weight of a physical blow to the solar plexus.
Morgan, don’t come to the house for New Year’s Eve. Tyler says your presence creates too much tension. It’s better if you just sit this one out. We’ll see you later in the week.
I stared at the text until the screen dimmed into a black void. Tyler. My sister’s husband of eight months. A man I had spoken to for a grand total of six hours across three agonizingly awkward Sunday dinners. In that sliver of time, he had managed to diagnose me as the “atmospheric pressure” of the family—the cold front that ruined his sunny, delusional climate.
“Click here to read the full story”.
