I’ve never been more desperate to put something behind me than I am right now.

I thought Emerald was a disaster, the way she distracted me long enough to get what she wanted, the way she played me like a fiddle, the way she almost yanked me off course.

Now I know better than that.

Every time I think of Angelica, my face goes hot, my gut churns, my heart feels like someone has stabbed it with a blade.

Why didn’t I learn my lesson? How stupid am I?

Angelica was the disaster. Angelica played me better than Emerald ever could have.

I toss and turn in my empty bed, thinking of Angelica at the police station. They call to update me when she’s released for the night. Not a flight risk, they say. Extortion, they say. It’s all part of some plan to reel in the guy at the center of the crime ring. She’s agreed to turn herself in if charges are filed.

I start to say that they should press charges against her right this very second, but bite back the words.

She affects me even now, in the black depths of my anger.

The way she approached me so tentatively, never wanting to pry but wanting to know...the way she made me want to curb my temper...

It pisses me off.

It pisses me off that someone who lied to me so well and for so long could still have a hold over me.

I force myself out of bed and stomp over to the walk-in closet, choosing the first workout clothes I find. Then I stalk out of the penthouse, stalk into the elevator, stalk across the street to the gym—which is always accessible by key card to VIP clients like myself—and lose myself in hours of sweating, pressing weights up and up, heavier and heavier, and running on the treadmill.

When I’m done, my muscles ache and burn.

But my heart is still an open wound.

* * *

I manage to claw three hours of sleep out of the early morning. Then, even though it’s Saturday, I go to the office.

I don’t want to be in the penthouse.

I should sell the thing and never go back.

I tear through paperwork, reading every single word. By the time Monday morning arrives, I’m going to be so far ahead that Emily’s not going to know what to do. But I’ll tell her. She can schedule meetings into infinity because I’m going to be involved now.

This is going to be my life.

The thought makes my stomach tighten. This office, these people, making money hand over fist, that’s going to be my life.

It was the right choice to end things with Angelica. How was I going to sleep at night knowing there was a liar lying next to me in my bed? A scam artist who wanted me for my money? A thief who apparently had no qualms about sleeping with the man she was helping to rob?

She didn’t get anything out of this.

The thought bubbles up and my hand clenches around my pen, ruining the signature on the form I’m signing.

“Fuck.”

There’s nobody in the office to hear me.

When the papers are gone, it’s two o’clock in the afternoon and the silence of the building rings in my ears.

My phone has been buzzing throughout the day, but none of the messages are from Angelica.

Good.

I don’t want to hear anything from her.

What could she say that would make her actions any less heinous?

That she loves you, and she loves her brother, and she couldn’t let him get taken out by some creep. That the stakes were too high. That she got in over her head.

No.

Not even that.

She can never take back what she’s done.

I text Stuart and tell him to take the rest of the night off, then walk home, looking in the windows of all the shops and restaurants.

Everywhere I look, there are couples.

Jaw set, muscles tense, I pick up the pace.

No matter how much it hurts right now, I had no other option.

I can never let her—or any woman—get that close to me again.

* * *

I spend the evening ensconced in the penthouse, looking it over.

No, I’m not going to sell it. That would be letting her win, and I’m not about to let her achieve that kind of victory over me.

Instead, I’ll remodel the whole thing. Remove any traces of her. Replace the furniture. Make it a new place.

Make it mine.

Like she was supposed to be mine.

“No,” I say out loud to the emptiness. “There’s no way.”

Isn’t there?

No.

I strip off my jacket and suit pants and change into comfortable lounge clothes, and then I crank up the air conditioning.

Now that I’ve got the penthouse to myself, I can do whatever the hell I want.

Tomorrow I’ll get back in the game. Tomorrow I’ll ask Connor to go to the Swan. He’ll find us some beautiful women to talk to and I can enjoy them for an hour and leave them behind, like I’m supposed to.

In the meantime, I can finally enjoy the quiet. The peace.

It’s not deafening. It’s how I like it. I like the solitude.

I relish the solitude.

I do.

But solitude is nothing if you’re going to sit around and waste it, so I queue up my favorite moves from my digital collection—my own personal Netflix—then place a call to Sasabune.

“It’s Jett Brandon.”

The people at the hostess station put me through to the chef.

“Buddy!” he cries. “Takeout for you and the lady?”

He doesn’t need to know about any of this. He needs to send a metric fuckton of food and send it fast so I can get started on my night in.

“Give me your best.”