The rain began at dawn, a steady, gray drizzle that smeared the city skyline and turned the floor-to-ceiling windows of Martin's penthouse into a blur of wet asphalt. It was Saturday.
By noon, the apartment was no longer his own. It had been thoroughly invaded by the machinery of a high-society wedding. Two tailors in identical black suits hovered near the wardrobe, their hands moving with quiet, terrifying precision as they steamed the charcoal suit for the final time. A junior coordinator from the event firm stood near the kitchen island, speaking into a hands-free headset in a frantic, hushed whisper about the specific placement of the white orchids at the cathedral.
Martin stood in front of the bathroom mirror, the collar of his white dress shirt open, staring at the man looking back at him. He looked exactly like a billionaire on the cusp of consolidating his dynasty. He looked polished. He looked correct.
He felt absolutely nothing.
