Of Love, Loss, and London

Chapter 1: The Daily Grind

THERE was a serene quality about the city from this height. The hustle and bustle of the teeming streets below could be seen, but not heard. The steady motion of vehicles gave the city a pulse, making it a living thing; a silent being, surging with life and purpose; a single, collective heart, beating towards the betterment of the nation, the kingdom, and the world.

Mac suddenly laughed aloud at his own bewildering thoughts. Existentialism had never been his strong suit. In fact, he tried to avoid it wherever possible. God only knew how it had managed to worm its way into his mind.

Shaking his head to clear it, he returned his gaze to the London skyline. The view from the thirty-fifth floor had always provided a sense of comfort, a way to regroup and rekindle his thoughts throughout the long work day. Business was his element, where he felt most at home, but that didn't mean he couldn't do with a small break every once in a while. Even if it was just to think such ridiculous things.

Unconsciously, he straightened the framed diploma hanging on the wall beside him. The golden letters glimmered in the late day sun; "Augustus James MacIntire V, Graduate Double First Class Honours of the University of Cambridge.

That name. A constant reminder not only of who he was, but what it meant to be a MacIntire. Five generations of men with his name. Five generations of prestige, prowess, and wealth. Five generations looking at him to carry on the family traditions and legacy. A legacy he never asked for.

He sighed openly. No wonder he preferred the moniker "Mac".

A soft rap at the door caused him to stiffen. Resuming his normal, stoic demeanour, he straightened his tie. 'Come in.'

With all of the carriage and confidence of a frightened deer, Zachary Higgins walked into his boss's office, pushing his glasses up his nose. He tried to hide his trembling hands by quickly putting them behind his back, but the reflection in the window betrayed him, making Mac smile ever so slightly. Clearing his throat weakly, he spoke with an understandable, but thick, Welsh accent. 'Sir, I have the reports from this morning's— well, reports.'

Mac hid a smirk by shifting his gaze back to the Thames. 'Yes. Thank you, Mr Higgins. You may leave them on my desk.' His assistant nodded, placing the folders as requested and turned to leave. But Mac had a sudden thought and, with a sharp intake of breath, he turned. 'Actually—'

The younger man stopped, turning on the spot. His eyes were the size of dinner plates and the tension in his shoulders was evident, as was the sheen of sweat just below his dark mop of hair. Mac tried desperately not to grin, repeating the mantra that had gotten him so far in life. Presence, MacIntire, always presence. 'How long have you been with us, Mr Higgins?'

'Se— Seven months," stuttered his assistant, "and I think— six days?'

Letting out a small humph, Mac looked at a note on his phone. 'Well, then, congratulations are in order.'

'S—Sir?' he stammered again.

'Yes. Congratulations. You have officially become my longest running assistant.' The resulting sigh of relief from his employee's lips was oddly satisfying. With the smallest of smirks, Mac continued. 'I'm sure you've heard the stories. I know how the office gossips. Senior Digital Information Director for only three years and, yet, I've been through fourteen assistants.'

The Welshman gulped audibly. 'That's— that's—'

'An average of two months and nineteen days.' He'd always been quick with numbers; another reason he was the youngest person to hit his position in company history. 'I know what they say about me, Mr Higgins. So, let me set the record straight: I didn't fire a single one of them.'