The ticking was driving him insane.

Edmund Cinders' forehead wrinkled as he looked up from the reports on his desk. He stared at the wall clock's minute-hand, daring it to move while wishing that he could take a sledgehammer to its face. His eyes remained fixed on the source of the offending sound, though his grip stayed firm around the four-hundred-dollar Mont Blanc that he held between his fingers. The rollerpoint pen had been part of his yearly Christmas bonus, and this year's bonus had been considerably more generous than the last.

It had been five years since he'd left his old job in order to work for the booming investment firm — five long years, with even longer hours. Sixty- or seventy-hour weeks had been the norm since the day he signed his first contract, and although he told himself at least once a month that he'd spend more time at home, he knew that wasn't true. He knew that, his wife knew that, and his kids had somehow figured it out, too.

Although he knew that the odds of making partner at his age were slim, he held out hope that — someday — the big dogs who worked upstairs would notice him and give him the promotion that he'd earned. He didn't need to make partner, he didn't need a big office with a view of the Capitol, but a little recognition would be nice. Hell, Edmund was the only associate who'd brought in clients during the recession — the only one to close deals that no one else wanted to touch. Yet, despite his efforts, no one ever looked his way. Meanwhile, his supervisors kept hiring more and more ivy league graduates, as if those stuck-up kids with their fancy business school diplomas had a clue about anything beyond the ivory walls of their various institutions' libraries. No, Edmund hadn't gone to Harvard, but he knew more about the industry than any yuppie with an M.B.A., and he'd bet his retirement fund on it.

Tick.

Not that he had much left in his retirement fund. His second marriage had been a huge drain on his finances. He loved his wife, Margot, but it was no secret that she had expensive taste and a hard time hearing the word 'no.'

Edmund sighed, blinking twice to focus his eyes. He'd been putting it off for months, but he could no longer deny that it was time for him to get his eyes checked. Even with his glasses on, the letters on the pages in front of him still danced in an arrangement of nonsensical words, mocking him as he squinted at the fuzzy squiggles. If there was one thing in life that he hated more than the realization that he was getting old, it was that he was getting old and only had a balding head to show for it.

Tock.

Actually, that wasn't entirely true. Come to think of it, Edmund had some things in life that he was very proud of. He glanced at the corner of his desk, studying the photo of his three girls: Madeline, Eleanor, and Clara. He loved them all, but the one in the middle — the blonde who looked just like his first wife — well, he'd be lying if he said that she wasn't his greatest achievement.

Eleanor had her mom's soulful blue eyes and the same laugh that carried for miles. She'd been a happy baby, and, thankfully, she was growing up to be an even happier pre-teen. She was easy to please, and, in fact, the biggest request she'd made of late was to be called Ella. Edmund tried his best to use her chosen nickname, but Ella never chided him when he slipped up. Maybe if she got angry, it'd be easier for him to remember.

Ella rarely got upset, though. It wasn't in her nature. She was too delicate. She was also curious, and her teachers always told him how smart his girl was. That pleased him, of course, but Edmund truly loved how his daughter marveled over the arts. It was somewhat of a relief that she had a damn good singing voice, too — a voice that canaries would be jealous of. It made it easier to encourage her, to tell her how wonderful she sounded. Edmund swelled with pride, knowing that Ella had developed her talent without a day of training. He made a mental note to ask her if she'd like to join a children's choir. With some lessons, he had a feeling that she could be their star.

Although little Ella was the spitting image of her mother, Edmund still saw himself in her. She shared his single-mindedness, along with his tendency to keep things to herself. Loving, obedient. Those were generally the first words that anyone used to describe the ten-year-old. Invariably, the next word was either 'independent' or 'shy,' depending on the speaker. Edmund believed both descriptions were accurate. Ella often seemed happiest when she was by herself, and that was even true when Madeline and Clara played together in front of her. At one point, Edmund had wondered if Margot's girls were being mean to Ella, and if that was why the three of them had never clicked. From time to time, he wanted to ask Ella but he always chickened out. He didn't want to believe that it could be true. He wouldn't have known what to do if it was, either.

Tick.

Still, he never worried about Ella's timidity keeping her from doing well in life. The cautious walls that she kept up were quick to come down, they just needed a gentle prod every now and then. She did best around people who were over-the-top, the ones who carried the conversation long enough for her to realize they weren't a threat. After that, Ella's personality would inevitably come through, and when it did, she melted hearts.

Edmund rubbed his eyes again. Ella was the only one of his children that came from him, though he didn't like to think that way — to make that distinction. When he'd adopted Madeline and Clara, they'd become his daughters — plain and simple. He knew Margot felt the same way about Ella, even if she was still adjusting to being a stepmother. It was strange how she knew exactly what was needed to be a parent to her girls, but extending that affection to Ella was still a struggle for her. Edmund knew that they all needed time to adjust to things, but the question was how much time was enough? When could they be the happy family that Ella deserved — that he deserved?

Tock.

Edmund's stomach growled as he caught a whiff of the Chinese take-out he'd thrown away in his office's garbage can. How long had it been since dinner? He glanced at his watch rather than the clock — five hours. Was that it?

He'd had bad heartburn all evening, and with a wince and a burp, he patted his belly, embarrassed by how much it had grown in the last decade. He tried to tell himself that he was bloated from the MSG-filled noodles he'd guzzled down, but the number on his dress pants didn't lie. The scale constantly warned him that he bordered on the verge of being overweight, which was a horrifying thought and another blow to his self-esteem. Fat, bald, and middle-aged. What a fantastic combination.

Ever since college, he'd been slightly padded around his midsection, but he'd never been this fat in his life. Edmund blamed the way he ate, though he knew his doctor had been right when she'd told him to start taking his meals with him to work. There was a fridge on his office floor where he could store his steamed vegetables and calorie-controlled salads. Margot had offered to start packing him his lunch but Edmund hated dieting. Plus, it was embarrassing for him to nibble on celery when everyone else around him ordered steak lunches. Couldn't he hold on to at least a sliver of his ego?

Tick.

Edmund rubbed his chest, wondering why he suddenly felt so hot. He wiped his brow. Had the air conditioning in the building gone off again? Edmund was sweating profusely now. Droplets formed on his forehead faster than he could brush them off.

He pushed himself back in his seat. Thanks to the ivy league eco-freaks who ran the upper-management, it wasn't unusual for the air to cut out after a certain time. They all left early enough that the conservation efforts didn't affect them at all, just the poor schmucks who were stuck toiling through the night.

The thermostat that controlled the floor's temperature was in the breakroom down the hall. It was an annoyance, but no real hardship to get up and fiddle with the settings. Edmund knew he'd have to do it if he wanted to keep working; there was no way he could survive much longer in this heat. Shakily, he got to his feet, and he pitched forward a few inches as his vision blurred again. He grabbed the edge of his desk, breathing heavily until his dizziness had passed. Was it possible to get a heatstroke when you were inside? Was that why he felt so terrible? He stretched his arms overhead and his shoulders creaked in protest.

Tock.

Screw it. I should just go home, Edmund thought. His supervisor wouldn't be happy, but Edmund knew that the documents on his desk could wait until the morning. It would be a dream come true to wrap himself in the freshly laundered sheets on his bed, and he knew that he'd feel better after a full night's sleep. It was late but still early enough that Margot would be awake when he got home. Surely she'd be happy to see him...

Tick.

Capping his overpriced pen, Edmund secured it in his shirt's front pocket. Then, he reached for his briefcase, his head heavy with fatigue and a strange fog-like sensation. He felt like he was moving very slowly, almost not moving at all. Another wave of heartburn hit him and he grunted, clutching his ribs until the pain dissipated through his body.

Never ordering from Mr. Po's again, he swore to himself, before typing out a quick text message to Margot to let her know that he was on his way back to their townhouse.

Tock.

As Edmund moved for the light switch on the wall, a familiar chime sounded, alerting him to Margot's response. He started to reach for the pocket where he kept his phone, but as he did, a violent wave of pain flooded his chest. Instinctively, he clutched his heart while his knees buckled beneath him. He tried to yell for help but he couldn't get enough air in his lungs to make a sound. In the back of his mind, he knew that no one was left on his floor, anyway. No one else was stupid enough to work until eleven on a Monday night.

Tick.

His phone beeped again and he brought his hand to its outline, grabbing it through the fabric of his pants. With a grunt, he tried to ease the gadget into his palm.

Tock.

Once he held the phone in front of him, he typed in the password to unlock it before entering the three digits he'd never planned on calling for himself. He lay curled in a ball on the carpet, and despite the agony he was in, he couldn't help but notice the hairs and dust that had collected around the office's skirting boards.

His damn pen was digging into his breast, though the discomfort nearly failed to register in comparison to what he felt in the rest of his body. He struggled to maintain his hold on the phone and used his last ounce of energy to set it to speakerphone before his head hit the ground.

"9-1-1, what is your emergency?"

"My heart..." Edmund said, gasping for air. He had no way of knowing that the next words out of his mouth would be his last, "Help me, I'm at G.U.S. Bank. River Street. My office is on the tenth floor."

The pain overrode the rest of Edmund's senses. He could hear the operator asking him questions, asking if he was still on the line. He tried to respond, but all he could do was pant like a dog. Like a dying dog.

Tick.

When the pain became too much and his vision went black, Edmund thought of Ella, and a tear rolled down his cheek.

Tock.

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A/N: Thank you for reading and voting! Any and all feedback is appreciated. The next chapter will either be posted tonight or tomorrow, so please check it out!