Michael Harris woke up at exactly 6:00 a.m., as he did every morning, in a glass-walled penthouse overlooking downtown Chicago. The air smelled of fresh cleaning solution and old silence. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in a flawless morning—the city gleaming as if showing off.
He didn’t look.
He never did.
The espresso machine hummed—Italian, absurdly expensive. Michael pressed a button and walked away before the coffee finished. He opened his closet: dark suits, crisp shirts, ties aligned with surgical precision. He grabbed one at random. It didn’t matter. Looking perfect had long been a way to hide the hollow space underneath.
In his private office, the walls were bare. No photos. No art. Just white emptiness.
Except for one locked drawer.
He opened it the way someone opens an old wound.
Inside, protected by glass, lay half of a faded red ribbon—frayed, thin, barely holding together.
His most useless possession.
His only truth.
He brushed it with his fingertips, as if the fabric might still be warm.
“Where are you, Valerie?” he whispered, not realizing he’d spoken aloud.
His phone buzzed.
Assistant: “9 a.m. meeting confirmed. Twelve-million-dollar deal finalized.”
Michael typed back: “Good.”