5:30 AM.
My eyes open. Not a second early, not a second late. I don't need an alarm clock. My brain is my alarm clock. It's very efficient, and it doesn't have a snooze button. Unlike the problem currently sleeping in my bed.
I look at the ceiling for exactly three seconds. This is my daily ritual. A moment of pure, silent order before the chaos of the world tries to intrude. Today, the chaos has blonde hair.
I turn my head. There she is. A tangle of hair and expensive perfume on the other side of my king-sized bed. My memory does a quick, efficient search. Last night. A charity event. Something about saving the whales, I think. She talked a lot. Her name… it started with an 'S'. Samantha? Sophie? My brain files it under 'Completed Transactions' and prepares to empty the trash.
I slide out of bed. The silk sheets feel cool and smooth. Perfect. The moment my feet touch the floor, I hear a sound from the bed.
"Mmm, Dalton?" her voice is muffled by the pillow. It's that slow, sleepy voice women use when they think it's charming. "What time is it? Come back to bed."
I do not answer. Answering only encourages them. I walk to my walk-in closet and enter the code. The door opens with a soft, satisfying click. My sanctuary. Rows of identical suits, shirts, and shoes, all organized by color and season. It's beautiful.
"Dalton? Are you ignoring me?" she asks, a little sharper now.
I select my workout clothes black shorts, a black shirt. I lay them out on the marble bench in the center of the closet. Everything has its place.
"I'm getting up," she announces. I hear the sheets rustle. "It's so early. We should order breakfast. I make amazing pancakes."
Pancakes. The word alone makes me feel ill. All that syrup and carbs. A messy, unproductive way to start the day.
I walk back to the bedroom doorway, my clothes in my hand. She's sitting up now, the sheets wrapped around her, blinking at me like a confused owl.
"A car is coming for you in fifteen minutes," I say. My voice is flat. It's not a suggestion.
There is a long silence. Her brain is clearly working much slower than mine. "What?" she finally says.
"Fifteen minutes," I repeat, as if speaking to a child. "You should get dressed. The driver is punctual."
Her face goes through the usual stages. First, confusion. Her brows furrow. Then, hurt. Her bottom lip trembles just a little. Finally, anger. Her eyes narrow. It's a predictable and boring process.
"You're kicking me out? Just like that?" she snaps, her voice rising. "After last night?"
"Last night was last night," I explain, my tone perfectly logical. "This is this morning. The car will be here in fourteen minutes now. I suggest you be in it."
"You are the coldest, most horrible man I have ever met!" she yells, throwing the sheets off and standing up.
"Thank you a very commonreview by the way," I reply. It's probably true. I then point towards the bathroom. "There are new toothbrushes in the cabinet. Sealed. Please use one."
She lets out a sound that is half-gasp, half-growl. It's undignified. She snatches her glittery dress from the floor a fashion disaster even in the dark and stomps into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
Slam.
I hate that sound. It's a violent, unpredictable noise in my perfectly quiet morning. It's an error in my code. My left eye twitches, just once. A tiny, physical rebellion I quickly suppress.
I get dressed in under sixty seconds. The fabric feels clean and precise against my skin. I am back in control.
I walk to my front door and pick up her small, sparkly purse from the console table. It looks ridiculous next to my simple, black wallet.
The bathroom door flies open. She's dressed, her hair messy, her makeup smudged. She looks… messy. I don't like messy.
I hold out her purse. "The car is downstairs."
She snatches it from my hand, her fingers brushing against mine. I resist the urge to wipe my hand on my pants. "I hope you have a truly terrible day!" she hisses.
The private elevator doors slide open right on cue. "I have a budget meeting at 8:30, so that's highly likely," I reply.
The doors close on her stunned, angry face. The messy variable has been eliminated. My space is my own again. Peace and quiet is restored.
My personal gym is not for fun. It's a laboratory where I experiment on my own body. The goal: total domination.
For thirty minutes, I push myself. I lift heavy weights. I run on the treadmill until my heart hammers against my ribs. The burn in my muscles isn't pain; it's data. It tells me I'm alive, that every system is functioning, that I am in charge. I watch myself in the mirror. My expression doesn't change. Rep after rep. Set after set. Everything is counted. Everything is controlled.
When I'm done, I feel clean. Empty of any unwanted feelings.
Next, the shower. This is a sacred ritual. I step in and begin the process.
Pre-rinse: 60 seconds.
Shampoo: Exactly two pumps. I lather for 45 seconds.
Conditioner: Exactly one pump. I leave it in for three minutes. During this time, I use my body wash.
Final rinse: 90 seconds.
The water temperature is a constant 102.4 degrees. I had a special thermostat installed. Anything else is barbaric.
After the shower, I stand in front of my closet again. This is the most important decision of my day. What armor will I wear?
I choose a charcoal grey suit. A white shirt, so crisp it looks like it could cut paper. A solid grey tie. I tie a perfect Half-Windsor knot without even thinking. I look in the full-length mirror. The man staring back is powerful. Impeccable. Untouchable.
Satisfactory.
7:00 AM. The gentle chime of my front door echoes through the penthouse. Mrs. Higgins, my housekeeper, lets herself in. She is a wonderful woman in her sixties who moves with the quiet grace of a secret agent. She never speaks unless spoken to. She is perfect.
"Good morning, Mr. Gray," she says, her voice calm and low.
"Mrs. Higgins," I reply, straightening my cufflinks. "I will not be eating breakfast today."
She pauses on her way to the kitchen. She looks at me, then subtly towards the bedroom door, which is now open and empty. She is very observant.
"But sir, your egg-white omelette with spinach and feta? It's all prepared," she says.
"I know. The macronutrient profile is excellent. However, I had a… messy guest this morning. It has ruined my appetite for any form of indulgence."
Mrs. Higgins doesn't even blink. She just gives a slow, understanding nod. "Very well, sir. I'll clean the bathroom."
She understands. The system must be restored. I appreciate her.
Which i cant say for most people.
7:15 AM. I step out of my building. My driver, Marcus, is standing by the open door of the black Maybach. He is holding the door for me. He is always on time. He is also a man of very few words. I pay him extra for that.
"The office, Marcus," I say as I slide into the back seat.
"Yes, Mr. Gray," is all he says.
The drive is silent. I don't like chatter in the morning. I spend the time looking at the financial news on my tablet. Numbers make sense. They go up, they go down. They don't have feelings. They don't slam doors.
The elevator in the GrayTech Tower is mine alone. It opens directly into my office, bypassing the common areas where my employees gossip and drink bad coffee. I don't like to be contaminated by their morning moods.
The doors open. And there she is. Elaine, my assistant. She is holding a tablet like it's a life preserver and she's drowning in the ocean of my expectations. She always looks like she's about to receive bad news.
"Good morning, Mr. Gray. Your schedule for today is " she begins, her voice a little too high.
I walk right past her, hanging my coat on the precise, single hook by the door. "Coffee. Then the schedule," I state, not looking at her.
"Oh, right, of course. The 8:30 meeting with the Singapore team, they're still unhappy with the.."
"Elaine,"I interrupt, stopping at my desk. "The coffee. Now. The words are not in the correct order without caffeine."
She flinches. "Right away!" She practically runs to the expensive espresso machine in the corner.
I sit in my large, leather chair. My desk is a vast, empty space of polished black wood. There is a computer monitor, a pen, and a notepad. Nothing else. Clutter is the enemy.
Elaine approaches carefully, like someone trying to feed a tiger. She sets a small white cup of espresso on a coaster in front of me.
"Your coffee, sir."
I pick it up. I take a small, deliberate sip. I place it back on the coaster. The sound of the cup touching the wood is loud in the quiet room.
I look at her. She holds her breath.
"This is the wrong coffee," I tell her.
Her face falls. "But… it's the Italian roast you always—"
"I asked for the Brazilian dark roast this week," I say, my voice calm but firm. "This is the Italian. The Brazilian has a deeper, less acidic profile. This is… unpleasantly sharp."
Her cheeks turn pink. "I'm so sorry, I must have forgotten. I can make another..."
"Just get the schedule right," I say, picking up my tablet and effectively dismissing her. "That's your primary function."
For the next hour, I tear through the workday. I am a general and my company is the battlefield. I call the head of my London office. His report is subpar.
"These numbers are pathetic," I tell him through the video screen. "A child with a lemonade stand could turn a better profit. Fix it by tomorrow or I'll find someone who can remember how to use a calculator."
I hang up. I can see Elaine flinch from her desk outside my glass wall. Good. A little fear keeps everyone sharp.
I love this part. The power. The control. Watching everyone scramble to meet my impossible standards. It's my favorite game.
By 9:30 AM, I feel a familiar tension. The office coffee is always wrong. Sometimes I think I tell Elaine the wrong roast on purpose. It's a small, daily test. And it's a little bit funny to watch her try to pass.
"Marcus," I say into my phone. "The curb in two minutes. We're going to The Grind."
The Grind is a coffee shop a block from my office. It's full of people with laptops writing screenplays and entrepreneurs with bad ideas. But they have one thing I need: good coffee beans, even if they usually mess up the brewing.
The moment I push the door open, the atmosphere changes. The happy chatter and the whirring of the coffee grinder die down. It's like I'm a wolf that just walked into a sheep convention. All conversation stops. All heads turn, then quickly look away. I can feel their fear. It's better than espresso.
The barista today is a guy. He has a big, fluffy beard , He looks up with a customer-service smile, which instantly vanishes when he sees me. His eyes widen. He knows me well.
I walk to the counter. I don't speak.
He swallows nervously. "Uh… good morning, sir. The usual?"
I give a single, slow nod.
He scrambles to make my drink a double espresso, no sugar, no room for error. His hands are shaking so much I'm surprised he doesn't spill the grounds. He puts the cup on the counter. "Here you go, sir."
I don't thank him. I just take the cup and walk to my usual table in the corner. It's the one with the best view of the door and the entire room. Old habits.
I sit down. I take a sip of the espresso.
It's terrible. Bitter and over-extracted. He probably rushed it because he was scared of me.
I look around the room. A woman quickly looks down at her book. A man in a suit suddenly finds his phone incredibly interesting. No one makes eye contact. I am the king of this little, terrified kingdom.
I drink the terrible coffee anyway. I will come back tomorrow and it will probably be terrible again. But this is my ritual. My small, controlled rebellion against the imperfection of the world.
I finish the last bitter drop and stand up to leave. As I walk out, the silence in the shop is so deep you could hear a tear fall.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Just the way I like it.