Living with Sterling Prescott was like sharing a cage with a black hole. His presence consumed all the air and light, leaving only a cold, intense gravity.
The first morning was a silent, tense affair. We met in the minimalist kitchen, a space of gleaming steel and white marble that looked like it had never been used. He was already in a perfect suit, reading a financial report on a tablet. I, in the gray silk blouse and trousers provided for me, made a coffee and pointedly poured it into my unicorn mug. He didn't acknowledge the act, but I saw his eyes track the movement.
Our days were a whirlwind of meetings on the Schmitt deal. I sat by his side, no longer an assistant, but a key advisor. I watched him operate: ruthless, brilliant, and utterly without sentiment. He dissected deals and
