“She’s the interior designer,” I call as I take the stairs, hearing Sam laughing again. Ava’s one of the only people who know where I live now. Could it be her?

My pace increases and the journey down in the elevator is the longest of my life, but it gives me some time to reason with myself. Of course it’s not Ava. Why would she withhold her name? Or . . . does she want to surprise me?

The doors open. My hope builds.

And dies.

Mikael’s wife gets up from one of the chairs. “Jesse,” she says.

“Freja,” I breathe, my legs unwilling to carry me out of the lift. “What are you doing here?” Stupidest fucking question ever asked.

She approaches, cautious, as she should be. “Can we talk?”

“What about?”

“Us,” she says, coming to a stop outside the lift.

“There is no us, Freja.” I back up, reaching for the button, but her hand comes out and stops the doors from closing.

“Why the call this morning?”

“I told you why.”

Her head cocks, her blonde hair falling over her shoulder. Her eyes look glassy. Sad. And damn my heart for feeling these days. I breathe in and step out, motioning her to one of the chairs in the foyer while checking we’re alone. The flowers I sent Ava catch my eye, still sitting pretty on the concierge’s desk. My nose wrinkles. They should be in Ava’s bedroom. She should be looking at them and thinking of me.

Freja sits, looking suddenly hopeful past her sadness, and I resign myself to spelling it out. I take the chair opposite her, having a quick rub at my forehead. “How do you know where . . .”

“You live?” She’s looking at me like it’s a stupid question, because, of course, it is. Her soon-to-be ex-husband is one of the developers of this building, and I bought the fucking penthouse.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “You need to pretend what happened never happened,” I say as softly as I can. Lord knows, there are plenty of men around The Manor ready to tie her up if that’s what she wants. I just can’t be one of them.

“Easy for you to say.”

She’s right. It is, and I’m in no position to question why that is these days. “I won’t be around The Manor as often as I used to be.” Or drunk like I used to be.

“Why?”

“I have other interests filling my time at the moment.” Listen to me. Other interests? Who do I think I am? I sigh, flopping back in the chair. I’m no good at reasoning with women. They can’t be reasoned with.

“May I ask what?” she presses.

“No,” I reply flatly. “Freja, The Manor isn’t a place you go to find love. It’s a place you go to fuck.”