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New York University to speak at a history symposium. She exposed his ignorance by asking a question that only someone from the Greek countryside could answer. She still remembers.
    What did ancient Greek farmers put on their lips to keep them from cracking in the sun?
    Ryzaard couldn’t guess, so she gave the answer.
    Olive oil and beeswax.
    He pulled her out of the crowd and offered her a job as his personal assistant on the spot. He later mentioned something about how she reminded him of his third grade school teacher, a secret love. Now she makes more salary in a month than her father earned from forty years of backbreaking toil.
    She strides through the open door and pauses in the middle of the room.
    Ryzaard stands at the window, shirtless, hands behind his back, gazing off to the right at the remnants of the setting sun across the Hudson River.
    The furniture in the office is just the way Ryzaard says he likes it. Sparse, but exquisite. The wide desk came with him from Oxford. Made of antique wood and custom-built to fit his height, its dark color matches the leather on the high-backed chair behind it. Among the items strewn about its surface, Alexa’s eyes focus on the foot-high bronze statue of a naked man. To her left, there is a large crystal cube big enough to sit on with an embroidered gold cushion on top. She knows it as his meditation platform. When sitting atop it in a lotus position, it gives the illusion that he’s floating in air. On the far right, a Chinese wall-hanging of a black dragon droops down above a red sofa. The ancient paper is crinkled and yellow, and the faint smell of dust lingers around it. The old grandfather clock from Ryzaard’s ancestral home in Poland stands on the opposite wall to the left.
    A line of tobacco smoke drifts up from a half-burnt cigarette balanced on the edge of the desk. Old books are stacked against the grandfather clock and go halfway up its side. Piles of documents are scattered on the desk.
    There are no bluescreens for video, no holo ports, no Mesh-com interfaces. The only piece of modern tech in the office is a jax. Even Ryzaard has one of those. It lies askew on the desk at the foot of the naked man.
    Alexa’s eyes run up and down Ryzaard’s familiar body. In the two years they’ve worked together, she’s become more than his assistant. For all the power he wields, he’s apparently never had a confidant, someone to open his heart to.
    As his companion, she has come to fill that void. Their relationship is not one of equals, but it allows her to be more honest and open with him than anyone else in his world. He tolerates her occasional criticism without exacting revenge or striking back.
    She can’t help appraising his looks.
    For a man supposedly in his late 60s, he is far too fit. His height allows him to look down on just about everyone, and she knows he has a distinct dislike for anyone taller. The well-muscled back, broad shoulders and arrow-straight posture contrast with a full head of gray hair. His silver mustache and goatee add an air of mystique. He wears his usual attire, a tweed jacket and bowtie reminiscent of his days at Oxford. He hasn’t been back to England since coming to MX Global three years ago.
    When she clears her throat, there is still no reaction from Ryzaard. He stares out the window in the direction of the setting sun apparently oblivious to her presence.
    “Dr. Ryzaard.” Alexa gently breaks the silence. “The emergency board of directors meeting has been called for 9:00 this evening. All the directors have arrived, and a quorum will be present in person. Mr. Van Pelt will conduct the meeting. It starts in half an hour.”
    Ryzaard slowly turns his body around to look at her. “Is the presentation set up and ready to go in the boardroom?” His voice is clear, a subtle mix of German and British accents.
    She knows better than to ask him if he’s from Germany. He always reacts with horror when that question comes up.
    “Yes,