I remember standing there with the hoodie still on, staring at my reflection in the glass.
I didn’t look poor.
I didn’t look humiliated.
I looked tired.
Tired of being translated into something smaller for other people’s comfort.
The next morning I dressed like myself in the language boardrooms understand. White shirt. Blue blazer. Tailored charcoal trousers. Clean shave. Silver watch my old cofounder had given me after our first major exit. Not flashy. Precise.
When I got to the tower, Rachel was already in the executive conference room.
Rachel had worked with me for four years and knew more about my schedule, companies, holdings, moods, and thresholds than anyone alive. She was efficient in the way surgeons are efficient: nothing wasted, nothing dropped, no drama. She also had a wicked sense of timing and an almost maternal commitment to my survival.
