The Leo Vance who stood before me in the hushed, art-lined corridor was a creature I had never seen before. For five years, I had managed every version of him: the charming star, the brooding artist, the petulant child, the calculated predator. But this man, stripped bare of his entourage, his confidence, and his carefully constructed reality, was a stranger. He was just a man in a suit that was too big for him, his face a ruin of desperation.
"Talk about what, Leo?" I asked. My voice was even, betraying none of the glacial finality that had settled in my heart. I kept my clutch bag held loosely in my hand, my posture relaxed. I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me tense.
"About us," he pleaded, taking another half-step forward. The air around him smelled faintly of expensive
