The sidewalk in front of my building on the Upper East Side is swarming with reporters.

Honest to God reporters, with telephoto lenses and phones clipped to their belts, squinting down at the LCD screens on the back of top-of-the-line equipment. Or maybe the paparazzi, although they’re not hiding in the bushes or lurking around pretending not to be watching for me.

“Who the hell do they work for?”

My driver, Noah, who also heads up my security team, shrugs. “Can’t be the newspapers.”

“No chance of that.”

The photographers mill around on the sidewalk for another five minutes.

Noah shifts in his seat. “What’s your call, boss?” He says it with a half grin on his face. Noah’s been a friend since before I went to Exeter. When I came back to New York after college, he was rising through the ranks at one of the top security firms in the city. With our current arrangement, there’s no firm taking a cut, and he’s never once complained about the extra money.

“I’m not dealing with that.”

He doesn’t wait for more instructions, shifts the Bentley into drive and pulls away from the curb, back into the evening traffic.

The air conditioning has the interior of the car at the perfect temperature, but I’m overheating in my suit. I tug at the collar of my shirt and then loosen my tie. I’ve been traveling all day, and all I want is to be back in my penthouse.

Of course, the vultures have already swarmed.

I never had this kind of problem before Elisa.

The thought of her has my stomach tied up in knots, the air dry and scorching when I take in a breath. My hands clench into fists against my pant legs.

I press one fist against the pain in my chest and clench my jaw, letting it crush me, roll me over, until it releases me for another hour.

I am never falling in love again.

The rumors are enough to drive anyone insane, but this recurring heart attack is more than I want to handle. Certainly more than I’m ever going to admit to another human.

They wouldn’t believe me anyway.

I work my jaw as the buildings we’re rushing past swim back into view. Noah will drive around for the rest of the evening, and all night, if I stay silent.

“The Four Seasons,” I rasp, then swallow, trying to make my voice sound normal. “Call ahead for the penthouse. Get yourself a room.” If I can’t be in my own penthouse, then I want to be at the top of the Four Seasons, as far away from the leeches on the street as possible.

Noah takes his cell out of his pocket without a second’s thought. He waits until we’re stopped at a light to swipe through his contacts and place the call. I tune him out after I’ve heard him drop the fake name that signals a priority client to the hotel reservations line.

My heart rate speeds up, panic and anxiety setting in again, and I stare out the window, forcing myself to read every marquee above the business to calm my racing thoughts.

People can think what they want about me. They can say what they want about me. But I’m not going to let them run me out of town. I was here first.

Noah pulls up in front of the Four Seasons and hops out of the driver’s side. “I’ll be right back.” He reappears a few minutes later and opens the back door, a small cardboard envelope tucked in his hand. “Lobby’s clear. You ready, boss?”

I respond by climbing out of the backseat and rising onto the sidewalk, back ramrod straight, shoulders thrown back. Noah’s right, as usual. The lobby is deserted except for two receptionists, and gentle music drowns out the sound of our shoes as they echo against the gleaming tiles. I’m dying to be by myself.

There’s a private elevator leading directly up to the penthouse, accessed by one of the keys Noah pulls out of the envelope. Once we get above the fortieth floor, my stomach churns. Don’t think about her. Don’t.

I can’t stop myself. Elisa would have loved this place.

Both Noah and I step out of the elevator into the expansive suite. It’s quiet like a cathedral, everything in its interior shining and spotless.

He whistles.

I hardly see any of it. The floor-to-ceiling windows frame a stunning view of the skyline, framing the sun as it sets brilliantly over the cityscape, its vibrant hues of oranges, reds and deep yellows coating the room with subtle warmth. I should feel relieved. I should feel at home.

Instead I feel numb, stiff, braced for the next wave of anxiety.

Noah turns to me and presses the envelope into my hand. “I’m on the forty-second floor, if you need anything.”

I give him a nod, my throat too tight to speak, and he claps me on the shoulder like he’s my grandfather. “Order some food at least, boss. Nobody wants you to starve to death.”

I give a bitter laugh. “Okay.”

Then he’s stepping back into the elevator, the door sliding shut soundlessly behind him, and I’m finally alone.

I wander through all nine rooms of the suite, staring out at the rapidly changing view as the sun sinks below the top lines of the buildings. Elisa’s laughter echoes in my memory. I can practically hear her exclaiming in glee about the enormous square tub in the master bathroom, at the master bedroom’s canopy bed with gold-threaded fabrics, at the views. My God, she would have loved the views.

I let out a deep sigh and rub at my chest.

Wallowing is not going to do me a bit of good.

I’ll have food sent up. I’ll eat. I’ll watch movies.

I’ll spend the weekend here, collecting myself, and when Monday comes, I’ll be able to make some decisions.

I’m in control of my life. Not the paparazzi camped out in front of my penthouse. Not the media. Not the Italian courts—at least not anymore. And not the ghost of the woman I loved and lost.

When Monday comes, I’ll go back to being Ace Kingsley, the man in charge, the man who takes what he wants, the man who never lets anything get to him.

When Monday comes, I’ll be invincible.