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He knows how to do this.

That may be what strikes me most.

There’s nothing dramatic about it. No spectacle. No irritation beyond the ordinary impatience of a man whose afternoon has been interrupted.

Still, I watch the room reorganize itself around him and feel the scale of his life differently than I did before.

When the photographer finally steps back, Ross catches my eye again.

“You look entertained,” he says.

“I’m observing.”

“That’s usually dangerous.”

I smile. “Apparently.”

Simone glances between us, then turns back to Ross.

“Five more minutes.”

Ross exhales and looks at me.

“See what I deal with?”

I almost laugh, but the question lingers after he turns away.

How much of his life actually belongs to him?

How much belongs to the company, the family, the press, the people who manage the image of all three?

I don’t ask him then. But the question follows me out of the room.

***

I'm back at Ross's penthouse in Chelsea by Friday night. I've been here enough times now that I no longer notice the apartment in pieces, but tonight I do. The two-level penthouse is quiet in a way the estate never is, all dark wood, pale stone, clean lines and wide windows looking over London. A staircase curves up toward the bedrooms, and the lower level opens into a large living room with a separate office tucked behind glass doors. It's expensive without feeling staged, which is probably the closest thing Ross has to a private refuge.

He's at the kitchen island pouring Scotch while I sit across from him with a glass of wine and tell him about the photographer, Simone and the communications team.

"You looked very comfortable with all of it," I say.

Ross glances at me as he sets the bottle down.

"Comfortable isn't the word I'd use."

"You knew exactly what to do."

"I've had practice."

I turn the stem of my glass between my fingers.

"That's what I mean."

He studies me for a moment, then comes around the island and sits beside me.

"What are you asking?"

I hesitate because I'm not entirely sure yet.