I arrive before sunrise, the city still ghosted by the half-light that flatters nothing and no one. The security guard greets me by name, but even his voice sounds diminished at this hour, as if afraid of waking the building’s true inhabitants: the ghosts of old deals, the memory of better times, the predators who built this empire brick by brick, lie by lie.
The elevator opens, and I step onto the polished marble with the measured tread of a woman who owns her territory. I do not rush. Not even now. Especially not now, when everything is coming undone.
The corridor toward the partners’ suite is deserted, except for the cleaning crew’s rolling carts—chemical tang laced over the base note of burnt coffee from the breakroom, floral cheapness fighting the rot beneath. My heels echo with mil
