The morning of the emergency board meeting dawned gray and oppressive, the sky over Manhattan the color of bruised steel. It was a fitting backdrop for the day’s events. The air in our penthouse was thick with the silent, frantic energy of a command bunker before a major offensive. Lawyers huddled in hushed conferences, their faces grim. Communications experts drafted statements and counter-statements for a dozen different scenarios. And at the center of it all, Sterling and I moved like two chess pieces on opposite sides of the board, our cold war reaching its chilling crescendo.
He stood in front of the full-length mirror in our dressing room, adjusting his tie with mechanical precision. His suit was a dark, severe charcoal, his shirt a stark white. It was his battle armor. He caught my
