Page 2 of Scrooge

“She isn’t wrong.” I slowly take a seat, the information now settling. “So what is going to happen? What does this all mean?” I ask, looking back at my parents. The stable ones, the foundation of our family unit. The ones who would move heaven and earth for my sister and me.

“Well, for one thing, you need to stop grabbing your ear. What have I told you all these years?” Mom says sternly with a lifted eyebrow, and it has the desired effect as I let go of my ear and drop my hand immediately.

“That it will fall off if I continue to pull at it… But seriously, if there was ever a time my ear was to fall off, now would be it, Mom,” I say sarcastically, and her lips thin. “What are we going to do? We are about to go into the busiest time of the year with Thanksgiving and then Christmas.”

“This Christmas will be our last.”

I think my heart literally stops beating.

“No!” I say in a rush, jolting to stand, not wanting to hear it. “It can’t be. I won’t let it. There has to be something we can do.” I start to pace around the small office at the back of the shop, thinking of a plan. It is a little dark and dingy, and to be fair, this building is almost a century old, so a bit of a renovation is needed. But not a total knockdown to build something that is all marble and glass, with no life. Something only attainable to the one-percenters. The unfathomably rich.

“We do what we always do. We get ready for our busiest time of the year. Because come Christmas, Tucker Toys will be gone,” Dad says as his gaze drifts down, unable to face us. He doesn’t have to say what he is thinking because it is written all over his devastated face.

“You haven’t let us down, Dad,” I tell him, and he looks up quickly with glassy eyes as I see my mom dab hers.

“Not at all,” Jillian chimes in.

“We can find a way out of this,” I assure them both. Sure, our business has been decreasing a little, but the shop still brings so much joy to people.

“Oh, I am not sure we can this time, sweetheart,” Dad says, and I watch the flame in his eyes dull again.

With a deep breath and renewed determination filling my bones, I make a commitment to do anything I can to make this right. To not let this break us. My dad deserves it, we all do.

2

ALEXANDER JACKSON

As I look out my office window at the city below, my scowl grows heavy. The streets are busy, the ongoing development increasing. New apartments, more high-rises, and Jackson Enterprises is at the forefront of it all. My father started a legacy, and I plan to make it bigger, better, and more profitable than even he thought possible.

“Excuse me, sir. Sheridan and Laurent are here for their three o’clock,” my assistant’s voice sounds through the room, knocking me from my thoughts, and I step over to the intercom.

“Send them in,” I tell her as I flatten my tie and look over our agenda for today, brow furrowing when I realize there isn’t one.

“Alexander,” Laurent says, the hint of his French accent now almost all gone. “Thanks for your time.” My PR manager has been in New York for most of his life. His Parisian roots only come out when he is in my London office, the one he and I left twelve months ago to return to New York.

“This better not waste it,” I say, wondering why they requested to see me. I’m a busy man, and I have met with them both already today to talk over our budgets for the next quarter. I’m making some moves on our real estate portfolios, increasing leases to ensure we are getting top dollar. I have property to develop. I need to continue to expand, and there’s no time for rest or distractions.

“We won’t.” Sheridan, the head of People and Culture breezes into the room behind him, and I give them a nod as I take a seat behind my desk. It was my father's desk up until the day he died. Large, heavy, mahogany, something he had for decades, and I didn’t want to get rid of it. It reminds me of him, so I kept it as my own. When I was a kid and came to see him at work, I used to hide underneath it and listen in to his phone conversations and he would feed me candy to keep me quiet.

Once I graduated from Yale, I worked beside my father for years. I was eager to. It was what I’d always wanted, having watched his passion and countless accomplishments. Until now, he kept me out of the spotlight and hidden in London, where I managed our European operation. Always protecting me, even in my adult years. But in his passing, I have stepped up and into his place. In more ways than one. My bank balance is full, my body and mind both fit and healthy, and my bed is always kept warm with the barrage of female attention I receive. No strings. No hassles. No commitments.

“We need to talk to you about your… profile,” Laurent starts, seemingly hesitant, and I look at him sharply.

“My profile?” I question him, feeling my shoulders stiffen.

“Yes, well, since you took over as President of Jackson Enterprises, there have been substantial changes, and your likeability is…” Laurent wavers, and my eyes narrow.

“Is what, Laurent?” I bark, and Sheridan jumps in her seat. Swallowing harshly, I wait for him to continue. And I hate waiting.

“Down the toilet internally,” Sheridan says, and my eyes flick to her. I scowl again, the move almost a permanent one for me these days, but I appreciate her direct nature and her honesty.

“And… down the toilet externally as well,” Laurent finishes.

“So?” I ask them as I lean back in my chair. I don’t need to be liked. I don’t give a shit what people think of me. I am building my father's business to surpass the success of anyone else’s in this country and soon the world.

“Staff engagement has decreased since you stopped the quarterly bonus structure and canceled leave,” Sheridan continues, and my eyes narrow.

“Those bonuses were hitting our bottom line every quarter. I have a huge team of staff and paying each person a bonus just to do their goddamn job—which they are being paid extremely well for anyway—was ridiculous,” I tell her simply. I may be wealthy, but I am not a fucking bank.

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