I stand in my office at Chen Industries, alone.
It's a strange thing, being alone in a space that used to terrify me. This office belonged to the old Vivian—the cold, efficient billionaire who wore black and white like armor and fired chefs for suggesting beef tartare. The walls still hold echoes of her: the abstract art she chose but never looked at, the leather chair she sat in while making decisions that affected thousands of employees, the window she stared out of while wondering, perhaps, if this was all there was to life.
