For seven years, I worked for Richard Bennett.
And for most of those seven years, I believed I understood him better than almost anyone else in the company.
I knew the way he took his coffee—black, no sugar, never after three in the afternoon. I knew which clients could make him sigh before he even answered the phone. I knew that Tuesday mornings were usually the worst time to bring him a complicated problem and that Friday afternoons, when the office grew quiet, were often when he became unexpectedly reflective.
I knew his habits, his moods, his schedule, and the tiny details most people never noticed.
But one Friday afternoon, at a quiet park ten minutes from our office, I realized there was one thing about Richard Bennett I had completely misunderstood.
His intentions.
It began seven years earlier, when I was twenty-four.
I desperately needed a job.
My résumé was painfully short, my professional experience was almost nonexistent, and during my interview, my hands shook so badly that I nearly spilled the glass of water sitting beside me.
