He had a list. Of course he had a list.I found it on the plane. Octavia, his assistant, met me at the airport with a slim black folder. Razor-sharp, efficient, polished. She didn’t smile. She didn’t speak more than necessary. She handed it over, gave me a precise nod, and left. Her posture alone screamed: Do not waste my time.Inside: a two-week schedule, a penthouse layout, a roster of staff and their names, and a single page titled Expectations.I opened it. The rules weren’t cruel. They were thorough. I was to be present at public events. I was discuss the arrangement with anyone, including family, without prior approval. I wasn’t to bring guests to the penthouse unannounced. I wasn’t to interfere in his business or speak to the press.The back of the page was blank. I found a pen in my bag and started writing.*He will not make decisions about my schedule without my input. He will not speak to me in front of staff the way he speaks to a board member. He will not enter my private
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