“When?”

“A couple of days.”

“What day?”

“I don’t know yet,” I snap. “Can you watch over her for me or not?”

“Fine.”

“Good. She’s too trusting, and I just—”

He cuts me off. “I’m on it.”

“Thank you.”

He hangs up before I can say anything else, and I exhale heavily. It’s a weird world where the person I trust most is a fourteen-year-old kid who works nights in a bar.

Perspiration dusts my skin, and I wipe my brow. Damn it, sleeping with that woman—or nearly sleeping with that woman—has me on the verge of a complete fucking meltdown. I’ve never felt so unstable.

I take a deep steadying breath as I stare out the window. I shouldn’t be going.

But I can’t stay.

The walls are closing in around me, and I didn’t sleep the entire night.

I pursued this . . . I wanted this.

And now?

Fuck . . . what have I done?

I just need some time with my brothers.

I rub my fingers over my stubble as I stare out the window.

Go back.

Don’t fuck this up. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

Go back.

“Can you just . . .”

The driver’s eyes flick up to meet mine in the rearview mirror.

“Never mind.” I correct myself. “Drop me off at the international terminal, please.”

I walk out of JFK Airport just at 7:00 p.m. The black limo is waiting by the curb for me.

Brandon, my driver, smiles warmly with a nod. “Good evening, Mr. Miles.”

I smile and shake his hand. “Hello, Brandon. It’s good to see you.”

He pops the trunk, and I put my backpack in and get into the back seat.

He pulls out into the traffic, and I look around my hometown in awe. It’s like I’m seeing it for the first time.

So busy.

Yellow cabs are everywhere, and I smile as I feel my equilibrium return.

“Are we picking anyone up, sir?” Brandon asks.

I frown. Do we normally pick people up? I guess we do.

“No, not tonight.”

I sit quietly in the back as we drive through New York. I glance at the time on my phone. It would be 1:00 a.m. in Spain.

I should call Hayden and tell her that I landed safely . . . and then say what?

I imagine how the conversation would go, and I exhale heavily.

I’m not in the mood for the third degree. I stuff my phone back in my pocket.

Fifteen minutes later we pull up in front of my building. “Home sweet home.” Brandon smiles.

“Yes.” I smile. “I’ve missed this place.”

“I’ll carry your bag up for you, sir,” he offers.

“No. I’ve got it, thanks.” I sling the huge backpack over my shoulder.

“What time will you be heading out, Mr. Miles?”

I frown. That’s right . . . I do go out every night when I’m here.

“I’m staying in tonight. Go home. Have the night off.”

Brandon’s eyebrows flick up as if he’s surprised.

“Thanks for coming to get me.”

He frowns.

I smile and make my way into the foyer.

The concierge staff all run when they see me with my heavy bag. “Mr. Miles, it’s good to see you, sir. Let us take that.”

“I’m fine,” I reply. Why are they all running?

I look around. Everything is marble and over-the-top luxurious. Huge bouquets of fresh flowers are everywhere, and the staff are all in black suits. The floor is so highly polished it looks like a mirror.

I frown. Was it always this luxurious? Did I just never notice it before?

Hmm . . .

I get into the elevator, and Harold, its operator, is standing quietly. “Hello, Mr. Miles.” He smiles.

“Hello, Harold.” I turn to face the front. “Have you had a good day?” I ask him.

“I have, sir.” He smiles. “Have you?”

I shrug. “It was okay,” I lie. I had the shittiest day of all time.

We continue to ride up to my penthouse, and a thought crosses my mind. Does he just stand in the elevator all night, waiting to take people up to their floors?

“How long have you worked in the elevator, Harold?”

“Seventeen years, sir.”

I stare at him.

He smiles broadly. “And tonight was the first time you have ever called me by my name.”

I blink. What?

The doors ping as we get to my floor. They open, and I stare at him, horrified.

“Have a wonderful night, sir.”

“You too,” I reply softly, taken aback. Surely that can’t be right, although deep down I know that it is.

I’m an asshole.

I walk out of the elevator and into my private foyer. I scan my fingerprint, and the double doors unlock. I push them open to walk in to floor-to-ceiling windows, stunning views over New York.

With a heavy heart, I drop my backpack and walk over to a window and stare out over the city. New York is buzzing down below, a sight that I have seen for all of my life—taken for granted, even.

Tonight, it feels foreign.

So foreign.

I turn and look around my grand apartment. It’s huge and spans two floors. Slouchy leather couches, polished concrete flooring, and bright abstract paintings hang on the walls.

I walk into the kitchen and look around. It’s as if I’m seeing every detail for the first time. Stylish appliances and expansive marble countertops. I open a door and stare in. Strip lighting illuminates a staircase leading down to the refrigerated room that’s bigger than most people’s living rooms. My wine cellar, where I house hundreds of thousands of dollars of exotic wine.

I frown, perplexed.

I close the door and walk up the grand double stairs beside the internal elevator.

I amble up the hall, and sensor lighting on the floor lights up as I walk along.

Hmm, why do I even need this? Since when has turning on a switch been so hard?

I arrive at my bedroom and stand at the door and look in at the oversize king bed.

A million visions run through my mind of the women I’ve had here, the parties, the orgies . . . the orgasms, both given and taken.

Deflated, I walk into my bathroom and turn the shower on. I stare up at the ceiling. It’s a triple shower with ornate brass fittings. Even though I used to see it every day, I never noticed it before. It’s something that I took for granted. Why do I even have a triple shower?

You know why . . .

There are usually three people in it.

I look around with fresh eyes. The marble is white, and the fittings are brass. There is a marble seat along one wall and a sunken spa bath in the floor. Fluffy navy-blue towels are folded perfectly on the shelving, along with four navy robes hanging perfectly on brass hooks on the wall.

Four robes.

This apartment has the best of the best of everything in it, packed to the hilt with luxury . . . but somehow, it’s empty.

So empty.

Deflated, I get into the shower and stand under the hot water. My heart is racing, and for the tenth time today, I feel the walls closing in on me. I swear to god, I’m fucking losing it.

I don’t feel like I’m home, and this all feels foreign . . . which is fucked up, because I am home.

New York has always been the one place I do belong.

If this doesn’t feel like home, then where is?

London.

If I was at my penthouse in London, then it would feel different, I’m sure.

Yes, that’s it . . . London.

I inhale deeply as I try to calm myself. Of course I’m rattled and feeling off. I didn’t sleep a wink last night and am exhausted. Jet lagged, even. I’m not going to call my brothers to meet tonight. I’m feeling way too off kilter.

I get out of the shower and dry off, and too tired to eat any dinner, I crawl into bed.

In the dark silence, I stare up at the ceiling.

The bed is huge, the sheets are crisp, and everything feels so clean and sterile.

Lonely.

My life is a mess.