It was intoxicating. For three years—or three seconds—Leo soared. He had parties on yachts in Lake Como. His face was on magazine covers. But fame, he learned, was a thirsty crowd. His phone never stopped. Friends became sycophants. An ex-fiancée suddenly wanted to "reconnect." He couldn't walk for a coffee without being pitched a "revolutionary" toaster. One night, alone in a penthouse with walls of glass overlooking the Duomo, he felt a terrible, hollow chill. He was seen by millions. Known by none.
He set the Milan Cheek Life Selector down on the dusty floor. He picked up the rent notice. He tore it in half. Then he walked out of the attic, down the winding stairs, and into the noisy, fragrant, imperfect street of his real Milan. He had no grand plan. No compass. But for the first time in years, his jaw—the famous Milan Cheek—was set not in hope or despair, but in the simple, radical act of beginning again.
He was standing on a red carpet. Not just any red carpet—the premiere of his latest building, The Velvet Arch , a twisting masterpiece of glass and steel that had just won the Pritzker Prize. Paparazzi screamed his name. "Leo! Leo! Over here!" Models draped themselves on his arms. A news anchor shoved a microphone in his face: "Mr. Cheek, how does it feel to be Milan's most celebrated architect since Renzo Piano?"
