No
Monday arrived and we didn’t mention Sunday. That was what I told myself in the lift on the way up. That Thursday evening was Thursday evening — a conversation between two people after a difficult three weeks, nothing more. That Lucian Voss was my employer. That I was his Senior Analyst. That the professional architecture of the forty-third floor remained exactly as it had been on day one. The lift doors opened. He was already there. Standing at my desk — not his, mine — reading something on a printed page, jacket on, tie straight. The full professional armour, reconstructed overnight with the precision I’d come to recognise as deliberate. He looked up when I stepped out. “Morning,” he said. “Morning.” He set the document down on my desk — the Alderton final clause, flagged with tw
- Writer
