The Mercedes glided through the city, tires humming over wet asphalt. Jamie sat in the back, the window cracked just enough for the late-December air to bite his face. Kofi’s usual jazz filled the cabin—slow, smoky saxophone weaving through the silence like a memory Jamie couldn’t quite place.He tapped his fingers on the armrest, matching the beat without thinking.Kofi’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, caught the movement, then returned to the road. A small smile flashed across his face for a split second.“You like this one, boss?”Jamie’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Coltrane?”“’59. My Funny Valentine.” Kofi’s deep voice carried a hint of pride. “Old, but gold.”Jamie nodded. “My father hated jazz. Said it was noise for people who couldn’t read sheet music.” He paused, watching streetlights blur past. “I used to sneak records into my room at boarding school. Thought I was rebelling.”Kofi chuckled softly. “Rebelling with Coltrane. Dangerous man.”Awkward silence. Like t

Two days until the interview.Jamie stood in front of the full-length mirror in his penthouse closet, the lights on auto-dimming, mirrors reflecting every angle like a hall of infinite selves. He pulled the Tom Ford charcoal three-piece suit from the rail—midnight wool with a subtle herringbone weave, shoulders cut sharp but not aggressive. The vest hugged his frame perfectly, the tie a slim black silk knot. On his wrist: the vintage Patek Philippe Nautilus, white-gold case with a glacier-blue dial that caught the light like frozen water. 38mm—understated, but the kind of watch that whispered fortunes without shouting. He rolled the sleeve down once, twice, checking the fit. No bracelet. Less was more when the words had to cut deeper than any accessory.Kofi watched from the doorway, arms folded, giving a single nod of approval.“Looking like death, Sir.” Kofi said, voice low.Jamie’s mouth curved. “That’s the point.”The day before had been quiet, no prep. Just Jamie, tea, talks with