Isaiah Mitchell woke every morning before sunrise, not because he was disciplined, but because sleep had stopped giving him much.
His penthouse faced Lake Michigan, and on clear mornings the water caught the light so perfectly it looked less like a lake and more like a sheet of hammered gold s.
Other people loved the view s.
Guests mentioned it, investors admired it, women he had dated photographed it.
Isaiah rarely looked at it for more than a second.
By six o’clock he was already dressed, already moving, already answering emails from an assistant who knew his schedule better than he knew his own pulse sbl.
The espresso machine in the kitchen cost seven thousand dollars and made a better cup than any cafe in the city.
He pressed the button, listened to the low mechanical hum, and walked away before the coffee finished pouring.
That was how he handled most things that were supposed to please him.
He started them.
He acquired them.
