His big shoulders drop. “I can’t deal with your stupidity.” He turns and walks away, and I nibble my lip, contemplating John’s words. Is she? Falling for me? I let my head meet the wall behind me. I don’t know. But I do know he’s right. And I hate that. But everything he said is the fucking point of my silence. I have way more chance of keeping Ava if she’s in love with me, especially when she discovers what this place is. Who I am. Where I’ve been, what I’ve seen. It’s easy to fall in love—that I know for sure. It’s hard to fall out of it, and that is my saving grace. Because having had this clean euphoria, there can be no going back. So I have to do what I have to do, and telling Ava what happens at my hotel isn’t a priority right now. Making her unable to survive without me, however, is.

The door to my office swings open and Coral’s eyes dart around, eventually finding me propped up against the wall. She goes to speak.

Then throws up at her feet.

I jump away. “For fuck’s sake, Coral.” The smell is instant, and so are my retches. And yet, I’m alone in dealing with this. It’s my penance. But I’ll clear up puke every day if that’s my punishment. I can cope with that. It’s far better than the alternative.

No Ava.

I lose my breath at the very thought, which is probably a good thing as I approach Coral, sidestepping the splattered carpet and taking her arm. I hold her up as I escort her to the couch, placing her back down. Her eyes roll. She grins, reaching and grabbing at thin air for me. There is absolutely no point trying to reason with her now. She won’t remember a thing, and I’ll only have to go over the same rigmarole again in the morning when she’s coherent. So I lift her feet onto the couch before removing my jacket and rolling up my sleeves. It’s time to stoop to an unbelievable low.

I leave Coral and go in search of a bucket and disinfectant. The surprise on my staff’s faces is warranted as they watch me scrounging through the cleaning closet. “Can I help you, Mr. Ward?” the sous chef asks, venturing from the kitchen to find out what I’m doing around these parts.

“I need a bucket, Paulo,” I say, moving endless things around on the shelves. “Any idea?”

“Let me get Rosa for you.”

“Rosa?” I ask, stopping with my search and turning my attention onto him. “What’s she still doing here?” It’s knocking on eight o’clock. Way over the end of her shift.