The penthouse apartment of Andy Finch was exactly what one would expect from a tech billionaire who spent too much time alone: sleek, modern, breathtakingly expensive, and devoid of warmth. It was a fortress of glass and steel overlooking the city, a place designed for brooding rather than living.
Usually, Andy moved through this space with the careless confidence of a man who owned the skyline.
Tonight, however, he was pacing around his walk-in closet like a caged wolf on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
"No," Andy muttered, ripping a navy blazer off a hanger and tossing it onto a pile of rejected garments that was rapidly growing into a fabric mountain on the floor. "Too corporate. I look like I’m about to fire someone."
He grabbed a charcoal suit. "Too funeral."
He grabbed a velve
