There are parts of my life that are performative by design and parts that are performative by necessity. Today is both.
I'm in the boardroom at the Marchesi offices for the Mirador follow-up—legal teams, accountants in too-tight ties, and the sort of paper that smells faintly of profit. The deal on the table is boring in the way things that shift power usually are: spreadsheets, clauses, contingency plans.
I'm halfway through my second espresso, trying not to gouge my eyes out with the Montblanc I brought from home, when the door opens mid-presentation and in strolls the devil himself.
Lucius moves like a man unaffected by law and etiquette; no announcement, no hesitation. Just the soft scrape of his shoes against marble as he crosses the room, sleeves rolled to the elbow, black tie hanging loose. His hair is slicked back with a few deliberate strands hanging loose on the sides.
