I blink my vision clear, shooting up on the bed. My phone is ringing again, and I sift through the sheets and pillows until I locate it. Amalie’s name glows on the screen. I drop my mobile back to the bed and head for the shower, the sound of her trying to reach me taunting me while I scrub last night’s dirt away.

By the time I’m done, I have endless missed calls and a few voicemails. I delete them, but notice one from John. I dial him.

“I need you in the new wing,” he says in answer.

“What for?”

“The beams. The carpenter wants to know if you’re happy with them.”

“They’re beams. What could possibly be wrong with them?”

“Just get your motherfucking arse over here.” He hangs up, and I laugh to myself. God, would I love to smash that fucker in the face from time to time. The feeling is probably mutual.

On a heavy sigh, I start to get into one of my finest suits, my armor, a mask to hide the cracks, rough up my blond hair with some wax, slip on my Rolex and brogues, and head to the new wing.

I find John in the farthest room, staring at the ceiling. “What’s the problem?”

His head drops, and I get a rare glimpse of his eyes as he stares over his wraparounds at me. “Are you happy with them?” He motions to where four thick oak beams span the width at even intervals.

“They look great.”

John raises his arms, and I frown, wondering what the fuck he’s doing. Then he launches his big body upward and wraps his hands over the top of a beam, his huge, imposing frame dangling from the ceiling. I recoil. More so when I hear an almighty crack. “What the fuck?”

John drops to his feet. “Still happy?”

“There was no mention of reinforcements,” the scrawny man next to him says, sounding panicked.

Well, fuck me. “How many of these have been installed?” I ask, mentally calculating the number of new rooms and how many beams are in each.

“All of them,” John grunts, throwing an accusing glare the guy’s way.

Oh. Well, that’s fucking great. “We need to fix this,” I say, looking across to the contractor who’s franticly flicking through his phone, probably searching for the email that makes no mention of reinforcements. Whatever. We’re here now and it needs sorting out. Jesus, I’ll have personal injury claims thrown at me left and right. “We need to hang things from these, mate,” I say, pointing to the ceiling.

“What kind of things?”

“People.”

He recoils. “P . . . p . . . people?”

“Yes, people.” I head for the door, smiling to myself. Poor fucker probably thinks he’s walked into a butchering house. “I’ll be in my office.”