The afternoon sun draped Lennox City in a golden splendor, casting long amber shadows across the airport's glassy facade. Jake Kirby stepped out of the terminal, the whoosh of automatic doors giving way to a gust of air tinged with jet fuel, heated asphalt, and the unmistakable energy of movement. He paused for a breath. Cities had a scent—this one smelled like ambition and old money.
He tugged his navy trench coat tighter—not out of necessity, but habit—and scanned the sleek row of high-end vehicles waiting curbside. Amid them purred a black Bentley Mulsanne, its polished hood ornament catching the sun like a tiny crown. The engine sounded more feline than mechanical, low and content like a well-fed tiger.
A tall, clean-shaven man in his forties stepped out, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit. His sharp eyes were hidden behind aviator sunglasses, and his neatly trimmed goatee framed an expression that was professionally unreadable.
"Mr. Jake Kirby?" the man asked, voice smooth as the leather interior of his car.
Jake nodded, shifting his duffel bag over one shoulder. "That's me."
"Welcome to Lennox. Mr. Sullivan sent me. Please—this way."
Jake followed the driver, the cityscape shimmering around him like a dream he hadn't revisited in a while. He hadn't been to Lennox City in over six months, yet the rhythm of it welcomed him like a familiar song. Horns blared in the distance. Pigeons scattered as pedestrians hurried across intersections. And as the Bentley pulled away, the skyline framed itself in the rearview mirror—stone-washed skyscrapers rising like giant chess pieces.
As they cruised past LTN Studios—once Jake's battlefield of deadlines, rewrites, and network politics—he couldn't help but smirk.
"You new in town?" the driver asked, glancing at Jake through the rearview.
Jake chuckled. "Not exactly. Just haven't been around for a while."
"Ah. Then welcome back."
The drive unfolded like a time-lapse of the city's soul. Skyscrapers gave way to boutique neighborhoods with wrought-iron balconies, then further to winding suburban lanes framed by sycamores and maples in their late-spring prime. Birds flitted across the open sky. Lawn sprinklers hissed like distant applause.
Eventually, the car slowed at an iron-wrought gate that opened automatically, revealing a cobbled private road flanked by marble lions. They passed manicured lawns so flawless they looked photoshopped. Then the Sullivan estate emerged into view.
The mansion was a masterpiece of symmetry and quiet intimidation. Crafted from honey-colored sandstone, it rose three stories high with Corinthian columns out front, Greco-Roman sculptures along the perimeter, and windows framed with gold trim that caught the fading sunlight like a halo. A marble fountain gushed elegantly in the center of the circular driveway, the sound of water masking the low purr of the Bentley as it came to a stop.
Jake stepped out slowly, absorbing the grandeur.
"Sir?" the driver offered his bag.
"Thanks. Got it." Jake slung the duffel over his shoulder and followed the soft clicking of heels on marble.
The door opened to a tall woman in a dark green uniform—housekeeper, by the look of her. Her hair was pulled into a flawless bun, and her face wore a practiced smile.
"Mr. Kirby, welcome. May I offer you something to drink? We have chilled pineapple juice, lemon spritz, or iced hibiscus tea."
"Pineapple sounds perfect," Jake replied, accepting the crystal glass she handed him with grace. The drink was tart, cool, and refreshing. He took a slow sip as he stepped into the sitting room.
It was like walking into a luxury magazine. Velvet drapes in deep burgundy framed windows as tall as oak trees. A grand chandelier—easily the size of a small car—hung from the ceiling like a frozen cascade of light. Below it, a leather sofa set in the color of roasted chestnuts surrounded a massive oak coffee table with a glass top. On the walls: oil paintings of sunsets, stallions mid-gallop, and solemn portraits of ancestors who looked like they'd won wars or at least negotiated billion-dollar deals.
Footsteps echoed from a hallway, and Mr. Sullivan appeared, wiping his hands on an apron. The man looked almost comical in his attire—rolled-up sleeves, sauce stains on his collar, and a proud glint in his eyes.
"Ah, Jake!" he called out. "Give me twenty minutes. Chef called in sick, and the madam's off at some steel summit. That leaves me as the kitchen commander. You're staying for lunch—non-negotiable."
Jake raised an eyebrow. "You? Cooking?"
Sullivan waved a wooden spoon like a saber. "Used to flip eggs in a truck-stop diner when I was sixteen. Didn't love it, but it taught me how to burn toast professionally."
They laughed.
Soon, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed again. Three teenagers appeared one by one, each carrying a unique energy.
Elena, sixteen, with a headband holding back her curls and eyes that didn't miss a thing, offered a polite nod. Maya, nineteen and already rolling her eyes, had a half-finished braid and wore a shirt that read, "Ask me if I care." And then there was Ethan, fourteen, his thumbs glued to a handheld console as he walked like a zombie across the rug.
"Where's Maria?" Jake asked.
"College conference," Sullivan said, emerging with a tray of food that surprisingly looked... delicious.
They gathered around a ten-seater dining table in a room with ceilings so high they echoed. Roast chicken glistened in a golden-brown crust, surrounded by mountains of mashed potatoes, steamed carrots, and a basket of warm rolls.
Over lunch, Jake fell into his old rhythm—banter, questions, stories.
"So... what's the plan, future titans of industry?" he asked between bites of chicken.
Elena smirked. "Scientist. Love studying the workings of the world"
Maya leaned forward, spearing a carrot. "Environmental law. I plan to sue oil companies into extinction."
Ethan didn't look up from his console. "Either pro-gaming... or engineering stuff to make gaming better."
Jake nodded solemnly. "Brilliant minds. I feel like I'm dining with the Avengers."
Mr. Sullivan sipped his lemonade and sighed theatrically. "Yeah right but not one of them thanked me for this Michelin-level masterpiece."
"We did!" Maya snapped. "You just have selective hearing."
"Selective hearing?"
Laughter broke out like confetti. Jake leaned back, watching the scene unfold with a kind of soft envy. There was warmth here, real warmth. Not the kind you bought, but the kind you built.
After lunch, Jake stood. "I've got a few friends to see. Mind if I borrow a ride?"
Sullivan tossed him a set of keys. "Take the Jaguar. Just don't outrun the cops."
The silver Jaguar was sleek, low, and hungry for asphalt. Jake drove with the windows down, the wind teasing his hair, the city whispering its old secrets to him. He took backstreets he hadn't visited in years, turned corners that once held turning points in his life.
His first stop was a squat brick apartment building in West Lennox. He knocked on a familiar door.
It opened to a shirtless man with bed hair and a beer in hand. He squinted, then gasped.
"Jake?! No freaking way!"
Jake laughed. "You still alive, Derry?"
Derry pulled him in for a brief bear hug. "Barely. You look rich."
"Better lighting," Jake smirked.
They traded quick stories—breakups, work stress, memories of chaotic nights—and soon, Jake moved on. He visited an old mentor, a former producer, and even his old dry cleaner, who had once kept an unpaid tab for six months.
As twilight crept in, Jake parked across from LTN Studios. The building stood as proud as ever, its logo backlit in cobalt blue. Across the street was Parenzo's, a dimly lit Italian restaurant with violin music sighing through the speakers.
He dialed Clara.
"Jake?" Her voice was a blend of surprise and wariness.
"Parenzo's. Meet me?"
Ten minutes later, she arrived.
Time slowed as she walked in. Dressed in a tailored navy-blue pantsuit, silver heels clicking on the marble, her curls tumbling down like a soft waterfall—Clara was radiant. Their eyes met, and the past washed over them in silence.
"You've changed," she said.
Jake stood. "You haven't. Still stunning."
Over risotto and wine, Jake told her about Germany, the show, the studio backing his next pitch. She listened, smiling occasionally, offering little interjections that reminded him why they had once clicked so well.
"I'm happy for you," Clara said. "And if you start something new, count me in as an investor. Or cheerleader."
They parted on a street of orange lamplight, hugging longer than necessary.
Back at the estate, night had fully descended. Mrs. Sullivan was home now, dressed in a maroon gown that shimmered under chandelier light. She greeted Jake with poise and laughter.
Jake bowed theatrically. "So this is the famous Mrs. Sullivan. Now I see where the girls got their charm."
Mr. Sullivan raised a brow. "Careful, Kirby. That coat ain't bulletproof. You seems to be insinuating that I am ugly."
Later, on the top balcony, Jake sat with the couple under the stars. The estate lay below them like a painted canvas—gardens glowing, fountains whispering, and the city lights in the far distance.
"This is beautiful," Jake said.
Mrs. Sullivan nodded. "It took time. Not just the house. The life."
"You work in steel, right?"
"Executive VP," she said. "Keeps me busy. But not too busy to cook when needed."
Mr. Sullivan chuckled. "We talk shop, raise kids, and occasionally rescue media moguls."
They sipped wine, the stars quietly blinking approval.
Morning came crisp and light. After breakfast, Mr. Sullivan led Jake past tennis courts and gardens into a massive hangar-like structure.
Inside, gleaming under skylights, was a private jet. Silver with black-tipped wings. Sleek and silent.
"You own a jet?"
Mr. Sullivan laughed. "Nope. She does."
Jake whistled low. "You're a lucky man."
"I know," Sullivan said simply.
As the engines purred to life and the jet rolled onto the private airstrip, Jake stood watching.
A new country awaited. New opportunities. New business.
And maybe—just maybe—a new beginning.