I barely slept that night. Each time I closed my eyes, I saw the look of shame and sadness on Briana's face, like it was burned into the backs of my eyelids. I couldn't escape her, couldn't escape the things I said to her.

But she'd deserved them, right? She deserved my rage. I'd known for a long time now that women were the harbingers of trouble. Enzo had always said that was why they were so exciting. The danger was every bit as seductive as the little bits of cleavage and the flashes of thigh. A woman without danger was a dull one.

I thought that Briana was different. I'd trusted her, let myself get in too deep, feel too much, and this was the result. I ached in my bones, and I hadn't gotten any sleep all fucking night. And I had no one to blame but myself.

I was pissed. I was miserable. I was ready to go home, back to New York where I understood the score and didn't have to worry about two-faced seductresses blinding me with lust so that they could cripple me with threats. I needed to go back to my life. The life I had before my brother and I had made the bad decision to go to Las Vegas.

By four-thirty in the morning, I'd had enough. I called for the jet and headed straight for the airport. I could be back to New York in a few hours, and then I'd be free to forget all about Briana. If I ever could.

The little voice in my head said I never would.

Though the flight calmed me down somewhat, it didn't take away the pain of losing her. In a perfect world, the anger I felt would be enough to strip me of my feelings and replace them with sawdust. But that wasn't the case.

I should have known better. I did know better. But I let her get past the walls I'd build up, and now I had to pay the consequences.

Now, I had to learn how to live without her.

It would've been easier to physically slice away a portion of my heart.

* * *

I buried myself in work from the moment I stepped on the plane. I worked through the weekend, and then went into the office early every day, and worked late every night. While I'd never been as much of a workaholic as Nicolas, it wasn't too out of character for me to throw myself into things after coming back from yet another trip.

But Enzo wasn't so easily convinced that was all there was to it.

“What's the matter with you?” he finally asked after nearly a week of giving me concerned looks.

I was in my Manhattan office, and he'd just come in to ask me to lunch. I'd agreed to go, but apparently not with enough gusto to satisfy the likes of Enzo Gianelli. He always knew when there was something wrong with me, even if I hid it perfectly to everyone else. So I knew it was pointless talking about it. What could he do? Go back in time and stop Briana from fucking Kendall and who knew how many others? Or perhaps stop me from ever approaching her in the first place?

“Nothing,” I retorted without looking up. I was looking down at some contracts I had to review before the end of the day. The only problem was that I'd spent the past half hour re-reading the first line because none of it was sticking in my brain.

“You've been off since you got back from that last trip to Vegas,” he continued. “Everyone's noticed. I'm the only one with big enough balls to ask about it.”

I licked my finger and flicked the page of the contract for effect. “Being a nuisance has nothing to do with ball size, I assure you. But if it did, yours would indeed be the biggest balls of all.” I flicked my gaze up to meet his. “Are we going for lunch or do you plan to grill me about pointless shit all afternoon?”

He gestured toward the door with a shrug. “Lead the way, brother.”

I set down the contracts and rubbed the bridge of my nose before getting up and heading toward the elevator.

If what he said was true, it was troubling to know that other people had noticed my attitude over the past couple of days. I prided myself on being able to, in most cases, separate my work life from my business life. It was why I hired escorts – and I'd already appreciated the hypocrisy of my actions – and it was why I didn't have much of a personal life in the first place. But Briana had thrown a wrench into the mix, and now I was left to pick up the pieces that the likes of Enzo seemed determined to trip over and cry foul.

He strolled up beside me just as the elevator doors opened. “So did you see Briana while you were in Vegas?”

I stepped in and pressed the lobby button. “No.”

“I don't believe you.” He took a spot beside me, hands folded politely in front of him.

I hated when Enzo did this. Normally, he was cheap and vulgar when it came to interacting with other people, especially me. But when there was something he truly wanted to know, he adopted the tried and true interrogation method of Bartolo Gianelli. Our father was the only person I'd heeded to growing up, and likewise, he was the only person who could consistently fish information out of me when I was feeling less than forthcoming.

“Why would you not see Briana?” Enzo asked in a measured tone. “You two seemed to have a rich connection. I thought you were quite smitten with her.”

I clenched my jaw hard. “And you seem to not be able to mind your own damn business.”

“I'm just asking out of interest, as somebody who also grew quite fond of the girl in the time we spent together.” He buffed his nails on his sleeve and inspected them under the light. “I would hate to think something happened to drive a wedge between you.”

“I don't want to talk about it, Enzo!” I snapped. He had successfully gotten under my skin yet again. Just like he always did. “Suffice it to say that I should have learned my lesson with Maggie, okay?”

Enzo's lips curved into his trademark, douchebag smirk. “Okay, Dorian. No need to get your panties in a bunch.” He placed a hand on my shoulder, which I immediately shook off. Unbothered, he added, “Know that I'm here for you if you want to talk about it.”

The elevator doors whizzed open, and I stepped out, already regretting my decision to go to lunch with him.

“So what did you do when you were in Vegas?” Enzo asked.

“I checked out a hotel whose owner wanted to open one of our restaurants.”

“And? Are we going to have a grand opening anytime soon?”

On the flight home, I sent an email to the owner of the Grapevine saying that I'd run the numbers, and unfortunately, it wasn't in the company's interest to enter into a partnership with his hotel at this time. In reality, I'd barely even glanced at the sheets he sent me. It was a wonder I remembered to respond at all.

“It wasn't a good fit,” I said.

I felt Enzo's side eye but blatantly ignored it.

“What a shame that you went all the way to Las Vegas to look at a hotel only to come back empty-handed.” He nudged me in the side with his elbow. “I know you must hate that.”

He was teasing me, referencing the fact that I was notorious for disliking what I called “timesuck ventures.” Usually, if I went to look into a potential project, the contract had already been all but written. I didn't like to waste my time.

“It is what it is, Enzo.”

“So it is.”

He whistled down the street the rest of the way to the restaurant. More than once, I nearly succumbed to the desire to knock his teeth out. Only the fact that my mom would be pissed at me kept me in check.