A year can erase a lifetime.
Or, more accurately, it can meticulously archive it, file it away in a climate-controlled vault deep in the recesses of your memory, a place you no longer have a reason to visit.
My new office was on the 54th floor of a gleaming glass tower in Century City. The entire west-facing wall was a single pane of glass, offering a panoramic, god-like view of Los Angeles sprawling towards the distant, hazy shimmer of the Pacific. It was a view that commanded silence, a constant reminder of scale, of ambition, of the vast machinery of the industry humming below. My industry. An industry I was no longer just surviving, but actively shaping.
The firm I’d joined as a partner, Atlas Strategy, had given me carte blanche. My reputation, forged in the fires of Leo’s scandals
