11:17 A.M.

When I arrive, [REDACTED] is naked except for his La Perla boxer-briefs and a black silk robe. He’s pacing, obsessively replaying last night’s Séraphine Du Mal show on his bedroom TV.

“I just...” he starts, pausing, jaw clenched. “[REDACTED]. I asked her one thing.”

He turns to face me slowly, eyes wide.

“No paper napkins. No paper napkins in the penthouse.”