Teach me, Mr Blackwood
I woke up late, my alarm never went off because power was still disconnected, and apparently, life hated me.
I ran out of my penthouse with shoes in my hand, a brush in my mouth, and a folder of documents I was pretty sure belonged to my dentist.
“I’m late,” I cried to no one, flagging a taxi as it owed me money.
Inside the cab, I shoved my feet into flats, tried smoothing my hair with a brush, and wondered if Damian Blackwood believed in mercy.
Spoiler: he didn’t.
The taxi pulled up to his building—a towering black block of glass stabbing into the sky.