The journey to the Metropolitan Museum of Art was a surreal glide through a canyon of city lights. Inside the climate-controlled silence of the Maybach, the chaotic pulse of New York felt a world away. Bernard said nothing, his profile as sharp and impassive as a Roman coin. He understood that this was not a social call; it was the deployment of a strategic asset. I was that asset.
As we neared the museum, the low thrum of the city was replaced by a different kind of roar—a tidal wave of human noise, the percussive blast of thousands of camera shutters firing at once. The car slowed, inching its way through a river of black sedans. Through the tinted glass, I saw the spectacle in all its glorious, terrifying madness: a sea of reporters, photographers, and fans, all crushed against barrica
