The thirty-second floor did not feel like the rest of Vance & Sterling.
Where the twenty-fourth floor was a noisy, glass-and-steel trading floor choked with fluorescent lights and frantic chatter, the executive suite was a quiet sanctuary of dark mahogany, hand-woven carpets, and tinted floor-to-ceiling windows that looked down over the silver haze of the Hudson River. The air smelled of polished leather, expensive espresso, and cold, unyielding power.
On Monday morning at 8:00 AM sharp, Enzo and I walked side-by-side down the hushed hallway toward the glass-fronted office at the end of the corridor.
We were no longer wearing the standard intern attire. I had traded my thrift-store blazers for a tailored charcoal dress with sharp lines; Enzo wore a crisp white dress shirt with the sleev
