I’m used to causing a stir wherever I go in the company, and today is no exception. As Marlowe, Mark and I proceed across the vast lobby, the women of Sullivan Construction react in ways as predictable as they are varied: the more brazen among them tossing me knowing smiles while eye-fucking me with indecent indiscretion, and the more timid clearing a path with those deer-in-the-headlights eyes that my presence always seems to trigger.

As we approach the bank of lifts, Serena, our front-of-house manager with legs longer than some motorways, finds an urgent need to rise from her chair and lean over the reception desk, conveniently displaying both her cleavage and her ability to make eye contact through her lashes. The gaggle of women checking their phones by the lifts suddenly fall silent, their whispers replaced by not-so-subtle glances. Even that pain in the arse from Legal, who spent last year's Christmas party telling me how much of a liability I am, suddenly develops an intense interest in smoothing her skirt while stealing glances my way.

It's the usual parade. I’d like it stated for the record that I have never, ever dipped my nib in the office ink—I’m not that fucking stupid—and normally I'd find these reactions tedious or amusing depending on my mood.

But today there's an added edge to their behaviour. These women aren’t just eyeing me; they're assessing Marlowe too, this stunning blonde in pristine Dior walking beside me. The calculation behind their eyes is transparent: sizing up the competition, measuring how long she'll last, wondering what makes her different from the others. Little do they know she's both my EA and my plaything, and I've got plans for her that would make HR spontaneously combust.

Plans that are making my fingers twitch with impatience as we cross this endless fucking lobby.

Still, it’s a solid reminder that whoever I’m seen with regularly will assume a certain level of profile by association, and I’d do well to make my interactions with Marlowe as discreet as possible. The last thing she needs is every woman in the building staring daggers at her because they think she’s caught my eye. And the last thing I need is the guys standing by the lift checking her out, even if a part of me can’t blame them.

I catch one guy behind her openly ogling her arse until he clocks me next to her. The smirk on his face vanishes as he visibly pales and clears his throat.

‘Mr Sullivan.’