Setting Me On Fire

The muted hum of the city was a familiar lullaby from her penthouse on the 76th floor. Margo Ambrosia sat at her kitchen island, a pristine white marble expanse, coffee cup warming her hands. Sunlight poured across the polished floors, illuminating the distant glass and stone towers of Midtown. Below, the sprawling green of Central Park was dotted with circling pigeons, a tiny, wild interruption in her perfectly ordered world.
Her Apple Watch chimed, a discreet reminder of the day's schedule. A tap silenced it. Work beckoned, but first, the ritual of preparation. Fasho, her company, awaited. Yet, her mind drifted, not to designs or deadlines, but to the intricate tapestry of her past, how she, Margo Ambrosia, had arrived at this pinnacle of perfection.
