The moment I stepped inside my office, I already felt a headache creeping in. Too many things to think about, not enough damn time to breathe. The pressure had settled on my shoulders like weights I couldn’t shrug off—Violet, the housing project, Maurice... and the damned viral video that threatened to crumble everything I built with precision.
I leaned back in my leather chair and pinched the bridge of my nose, exhaling a frustrated sigh.
“Beatrice,” I called, not even looking up. “What’s my schedule today?”
My secretary, always prissy and overly excited to be helpful, clicked her heels on the marble floor and came closer with her ever-present clipboard. “Oh, wait, let me check, Mr. Isidore…”
I tapped my fingers against the desk impatiently, watching the cityscape through the window.
