He led me to a small, isolated table set against a glass balustrade, where the distant glow of the city felt like a private backdrop staged just for us. The noise of the party, the clinking glasses and easy laughter, seemed to recede, held at bay by an invisible wall of focus that emanated from him. There was an intensity in his demeanor that stilled the air around us.
I half-expected a bottle of vintage champagne, a celebratory toast, or even one of those grand, cinematic speeches that men of his stature were so fond of. Instead, he simply sat, gesturing for me to do the same. On the table between us lay a single, slim portfolio bound in dark navy leather. It looked severe, official. My mind raced through possibilities. A non-disclosure agreement? An exclusivity contract with his conglom
