Oh, who cares if someone takes my luggage while I try to snap a few photos. I give in because this is something I have to document. Setting the bags down for a moment, I reach for my phone and click the twin glass towers, posting it on my Instagram and adding a video with a panoramic shot.

The place looks like a luxury hotel. The main doors slide open, there’s a concierge at the front desk who greets me, “Good afternoon, you must be Ms. Solis.”

“I—yes, that’s me,” I say, confused that he recognized me.

From where?

“Your assistant gave me a pretty accurate description of you earlier when she dropped off this envelope.”

“Thank you so much. I’m Claire Solis,” I say.

“Emmett,” he says, shaking my hand. “Welcome to the building. If you need any help, just call me.”

I put the envelope inside my purse and continue toward the elevator bank but stop when I hear someone calling out my name.

“Claire, is that you?”

The voice sounds familiar, but it’s not Danielle. Courtney couldn’t be, she lives in Iowa. Who can it be? When I turn to my left, I regret not running faster. It’s Lola Archer jogging my way. Right behind is Crystal, her mother.

Oh God, what are they going to do to me? Probably slap me for breaking up with Miller. God knows what the asshole told them about me. Something like, “The gold-digging bitch only wanted my company. I fired her ass immediately.”

Would he have done that?

He promised not to make me look bad. He also promised to give me the best birthday ever and it was the worst. Then there’s Tuscany. I’ve still only seen the place through pictures. Asshole.

“Claire,” Lola repeats.

Could I fake amnesia?

This isn’t a good sign. If these two are here, will Miller be around?

Why today?

I look like a truck ran over me and I haven’t slept in a year. I pray that he isn’t nearby. If, or more likely when, I see him again, I have to look spectacular. Out of a Prada catalog, not like a character of The Walking Dead.

“Lola, hi,” I say stiffly.

Why is she hugging me?

These people don’t care about my personal space. Okay, that’s also a sign that Miller might’ve been nicer than I thought.

He didn’t make me look like a shitty bitch after we broke up, or his sister wouldn’t be hugging me as if we were best friends.

Actually, it feels like they are about to roll out the red carpet. This is too much for the ex, isn’t it?

When I see Thomas’ ex-girlfriends, I just nod, smile, and walk away. I remind myself the Archers are strange creatures.