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.
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.
He left them untouched.
His apartment was immaculate in a way that felt less impressive than eerie.
No photographs.
No souvenirs.
