At forty-two, you had everything people spent their entire lives chasing and still died without touching.
A private jet that smelled like leather and silence. A penthouse above the Chicago skyline where the windows ran from floor to ceiling and made the city look like something you owned instead of something that had once nearly swallowed you alive. Hotels, biotech investments, real estate, and a chain of luxury steakhouses called Black Ember, where hedge fund managers paid three hundred dollars for a steak and considered the pain part of the experience.
From the outside, your life looked polished enough to be photographed for magazines.
From the inside, it had begun to feel like a museum after closing time.
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