The sky over Manhattan is gray, heavy with smog and exhaust fumes. September is just a few days away, and the heat has come back with a vengeance. Apparently, Damien missed a few days of cooler weather and torrential rain while out in LA. Just his luck, to come back from that infernal sunbaked city into this sauna. The humidity topped ninety-five percent around lunchtime, and he has retreated from the roof terrace into the living room, with the aircon cranked up and the curtains drawn. A dull, pounding pain just started on the back-left side of his head, and his vision flips in and out of focus every so often.

Being on the phone with lawyers and real estate agents has done nothing to help avert this latest migraine attack. There’s no progress with the lawyer; Idil still refuses to budge. Mike, who is a longtime friend and an excellent divorce lawyer, tried to shore up Damien’s optimism on the phone for an hour.

“Patience,” he kept saying. “This is not the end; there’s still a lot we can try. She won’t get it through the court, anyway. She has no grounds to refuse you access. It’s all just out of spite. That Elavil overdose was years ago, and nobody will believe her if she claims you did that on purpose. But I want us to find an amicable solution, so she still talks to you by the end. Let me speak with her lawyer again, and the judge. We’ll figure something out.” That’s Mike’s mantra, We’ll figure something out.

But Damien is so tired. He has used up all his mental and physical energy in the constant fights with Idil, on traveling to the West Coast every few days, hoping that she’ll relent. She loved him once, and he loved her. His heart hurts for Zoe, who is confused and frightened by it all. And, truth be told, so is he. His head gives another angry throb.

The phone call he had to make after he got off the line with Mike was even worse. The real estate agent in Beverly Hills is useless. Okay, she’s not, he’s being unfair. It’s his fault that the mere thought of moving to LA makes him want to puke. Even the most alluring properties she sends him make him feel nothing but despair. The prices there are insane. He now remembers why he never invested in an LA property when he and Idil got serious. Of course, she’s all set up now, with her second-year Chanel ambassador contract. Her talent agency has started to take off as well. She could move her base of operations back to New York, now that she’s turned away from a movie career that never got off the ground. New York would be the logical place to concentrate on fashion and discovering new models. But she keeps Zoe on the West Coast to spite Damien yet again.

In February during Fashion Week, when she was last in New York for more than a couple of days, she refused to bring Zoe, claiming she’d be too busy with the galas and shows she had to attend. That hurt, and she ignored his suggestion that he could look after their daughter during that time. He’d been on a shooting break from Gaukur and had come back from Canada with the hope to see his daughter.

And then, when Damien went to LA for the last few weeks of shooting Dark Core, Idil sent the kid to San Diego, to stay with her parents. Damien’s gut churns when he thinks of it. He’s completely helpless. He hasn’t seen Zoe since the beginning of the year.

Now he has to grin and bear it, and look at brochure after brochure of houses in the Hills that he can’t afford and doesn’t want. “Make your home base LA,” Mike advised. “It shows goodwill.” The fact that the California sun will make Damien’s migraine attacks more frequent is something he’ll just have to learn to live with. He wonders if Rose would be willing to move to LA for him. He trusts her and relies on her more and more; she’s the best assistant he’s ever had.

Damien goes into the kitchen to turn on the coffee maker. He really wants a cigarette, but that would mean stepping out onto the terrace again. The thought of the relentless humidity stops him.

The best place he’s ever lived, as far as his migraine is concerned, is Winnipeg. He’s there only in the winter months, but the cold doesn’t bother him. It has never caused an attack. But soon even that might be history. Rumor from the studio has it that Gaukur might not be renewed after the next season, for which principal photography starts in the new year. Damien rubs his eyes hard. One thing at a time. He’ll cross that wobbly bridge when he comes to it.

He takes the cup of coffee he no longer fancies back to the sofa, but one look at the house catalogues and court files spread across the table he keeps on walking, admitting defeat. He grabs the pack of cigarettes from the bookshelf near the patio door and settles outside under the umbrella, even though the sun isn’t shining. The refracted light filtering through the smog and clouds still stings in his eyes, and he wipes them with the heel of his hand. Then he lights up and leans back in the chair with his eyes closed. But after a few drags he stubs out the smoke. It makes him feel worse today, not better. The coffee is also starting to taste bad, and there’s the familiar metallic, almost bloody taste on the back of his tongue.

With a sigh, he gets up again and goes back into the kitchen for the bottle of Maxalt rescue pills. He keeps it here for when he doesn’t feel he can make it down the stairs anymore to the lower level of the penthouse where the bedrooms are. Today, he could still navigate the stairs, and he should just go to bed, but Damien doesn’t want to admit that the day is a total waste just yet. He swallows the pills with a bit of water, then returns to the sofa, holding on to the furniture as he goes. He lowers himself with a wince and stretches out, burying his head in a cushion. The meds tend to make him drowsy, and they work best while he sleeps. Trying not to dwell on how the pain moves around the left side of his head he closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing, and soon feels himself drifting toward sleep.

He’s awoken by the doorbell. For a while, even though the sound penetrates the drugged fog around his consciousness, Damien can’t work out what it means. When his brain finally decodes the noise, he sits up and rubs his eyes.

It’s getting dark outside; he can see the faint glow of streetlights through the half-drawn curtains. His head feels better, but everything is slow and fuzzy around the edges.

For a moment, he sits with his head in his hands, then, when the doorbell chimes again, he gets to his feet. He grips the handrail as he descends the stairs. Falling down the gloomy stairwell is the last thing he needs now. He presses the button that activates the frog view camera by the entrance door and squints at the little screen next to the door. His heart misses a beat.

“The hell?” he murmurs and presses the button for the intercom. “Vivienne! What’re you doing here?”

“Oh, thank goodness!” she exclaims, and he can see her wringing her hands on the little screen. “You’re home! Can you let me in? Please?”

“Sure.” Still bemused, Damien presses the buzzer. Viv pulls open the door and disappears from view.

Damien leans against the wall by the open penthouse door. Why is she here? He rubs his eyes again; they hurt now. He can’t think well enough tonight to deal with Viv. They left it on such an awkward note in LA. Damien feels guilty for how he treated her when he took her back to his room at the Four Seasons. She didn’t deserve that. He’d had a feeling she wanted their fling to continue after Vegas, so the decent thing would’ve been to send her on her way right then and there outside the courthouse. But he’d felt so alone that day, and so scared. Having something, someone to take his mind off it had been too much of a temptation. Now it seems it’s too late to get out of this without hurt feelings.

Still, it unsettles him that she would come here unannounced. How does she even know where he lives? But of course, she has easy access to his details via his employment files for Dark Core.

The elevator rattles to a stop on his, the tenth, floor. Damien straightens up. He’ll be kind to her this time, he promises himself, but firm. She’s not staying, whatever happens.

As soon as the doors open, Viv comes hurrying out of the elevator. “Damien!” she calls and flings herself around his neck before he can stop her or say anything. “Oh Damien, thank goodness!”

He staggers under the sudden weight of her and untangles himself gently, hoping that won’t upset her more. He studies her face, which is blotchy with tears. “Viv, what happened?” he asks. “Why’re you here? Why didn’t you call first?”

She wipes at her face. “Can…can I come in?”

“Sure,” he says, cursing his good manners even as he steps aside. She makes for the stairs right away, and Damien follows.

When he reaches the top, out of breath, she turns to him, and there are tears in her eyes again. “I swear, I didn’t mean to. I was going to go to the apartment, and call you tomorrow… but these men, they…they followed me, and I was so scared!” She hiccups to a halt and wipes her face. Then she steps close and takes Damien’s hand. “Please, can we call the police?”