Craig knows something is up as soon as I get into the car, but one glance in the rearview mirror and he thinks better of asking what it is. I bark at him to take me to the penthouse.

Once I’m inside, I have no earthly idea what to do with myself.

Over and over, I reach for my phone to message her, to call her back, to tell her that all of this was some kind of terrible mistake. That it happened because I’m tired. That it happened because I canceled my vacation and when I got back to the office some kind of crazy undercover shit storm was happening, and the FBI didn’t want me to get involved in discovering who the culprit is. That the heat in the city gets to me when it’s oppressive like this.

There are a thousand reasons for this to have happened, and all of them are stupid, senseless.

I’m in the penthouse ten minutes, pacing around and getting absolutely nowhere, before I text Craig to come back around.

“The club on Fifth.”

He nods, and pulls away from the curb without another word.

It’s the same club I took O’Connor too, and it’s the only place I can think of in this godforsaken moment where I can be with other people and not be bothered.

My mind is still reeling when I step out of the Town Car into the evening glow. This is the kind of light that normally makes New York City look romantic, but right now it makes my stomach turn. The dark interior of the club is where I need to be right now.

The woman behind the desk in the small lobby smiles at me, understated, not the overdone attitude of hostesses at the public restaurants. They’re paid to be this way, paid to know the patrons but never reveal them to others unless specifically asked. “Good evening, Mr. Wilder. Would you like a private room, or will you be going to the lounge?”

Her question is a simple one, with a simple answer, and it’s like a cold drink in the desert. “The lounge.”

She dips her chin. “May I take your jacket?”

“No, that’s fine.”

Simple questions. Simple answers. The muscles in my back release some of the tension. Coming here is probably the first good idea I’ve had all day.

I follow the woman—Sarah, her name tag says, but I’m not convinced that any of the staff here use their real names to add another layer of secrecy, of exclusivity—into the lounge at the back of the building.

It could be any lounge, anywhere, and that’s what I’m looking for right now—a place that could be anywhere, a place where I haven’t had a fight with the only woman to captivate me like this in my life and walked out on her.

I sit in one of the low chairs near a window, order a whiskey, and lean back, letting the hum of the conversation in the room wash over me.

There are maybe six other people in here. We’re all in uniform, all in finely tailored suits, all obsessed with our money—you have to be, in order to be able to buy a membership here—and I laugh a little at that. Obsessed with our businesses, our money, and for what?

An image of my father flashes into my mind. So you don’t end up like him, that’s why.

The whiskey comes to the table and I drink more of it in one gulp than I should, then order a second. The burn settles me. The burn centers me. And finally, finally, my thoughts start to settle in.

I went too far with Vivienne, that much is clear, but I’m not sure if I went too far in being with her, or in the way I conducted myself at her apartment. Probably both. But the more I drink, the more I look out the window and force myself to think about this like an adult instead of a paranoid child in a rage, the more I think I’ve done what I had to do to save Wilder Enterprises.

Not that she was putting my business in imminent danger of collapse—no. But somewhere along the line, this would have happened; somewhere along the line, it would have become untenable to keep letting her intoxicate me, letting her drown me in what we were becoming.

I can’t even entertain the thought that what we were becoming was something incredible. I can’t, and then I do, and it’s like someone is punching me in the gut, reaching in through my rib cage and squeezing my heart with rough hands, squeezing it until it’s about ready to burst.

I order another whiskey.

And then, because I can’t think of any other thing to do, I pull out my phone and make a call.

Chris’s voice is startled to say the least. “Dominic?”

“I’m calling you this time, old friend.”

He hesitates. “Did you—what’s going on, man?”

“Remember that exclusive club that you hated?”

“Yes…”

“I’m here right now, and I look pathetic.” I spit out the last two words a little too loudly, drawing the attention of some of the other people in the room. “Come drink with me.” I signal to the waitress, who’s already making a beeline to my table. When she’s next to me, I cover the phone with my hand, like it makes any difference. “I changed my mind, sweetheart. I’m going to need a private room.”

“Right this way, sir.” Her eyes don’t give away the fact that I’m making an absolute fool of myself. Part of me wonders if anyone in here recognizes me on sight, whether I’m acting out a self-fulfilling prophecy, ruining my reputation all by myself and dragging down Wilder Enterprises with me. “You must be hungry,” she continues in her cool tone while I follow her unsteadily out of the lounge, down a hallway, down another hall to the right, and into a smaller private room, where she pours me a glass of ice water from a crystal pitcher. “Let me order you some appetizers.”

“That sounds wonderful.” The drinks are going to my head, to my heart, and it’s not too late to pull out of this, but I can’t do it by myself. “Chris, buddy—” I don’t know who I am anymore. “Come to that club and ask for me in the lobby. It’s time for a night out.”

“Did something happen, Dominic?”

“You know what? I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you as soon as you get here. Don’t let me down!”

“I won’t,” he says, uncertainty ringing in his voice, and then the line goes dead.