I hit fifteen miles and start to work down to a steady jog, the cobwebs well and truly blown off. Not that there were many this morning. I woke up fresh. Alert. Invigorated. That’s a new sensation too. One that’s both appealing and daunting.

I collect a coffee from Starbucks and pace down toward the docks, taking a seat on a bench to catch my breath. The water is still, the air fresh, a new day awaiting me. A good day? A bad day? I’m too used to the latter and, frankly, I’m fucked off with the continuous mundane cycle. And the energy it takes to pointlessly convince everyone around me that I’m good. Including myself. On Friday, I really did feel good. I want more of that. Way more.

I turn and gaze to the very top of Lusso. The morning haze is shrouding my penthouse, the terrace only just visible.

You’ll amount to nothing, Jesse. You’ll piss your life away on drink and women, you mark my words.

I stand and toss my cup in a nearby bin, Dad’s words circling on repeat.

He’s only part right.

Sarah is on me like a wolf when I arrive at The Manor, her long, leather-covered legs working fast to keep up with my strides as I head to my office. “You need to tell me what the fuck is going on,” she snaps, chasing my heels.

“Nice to see you too,” I mutter, pushing my way through the door. I come to an abrupt halt, and Sarah crashes into my back, jolting me. I stare at the drinks cabinet for a few moments. Just a few. “Get rid of the alcohol,” I order. I land in my chair, readjusting my tie. It’s tight.

“What?” she spits, impatient, her eyes drifting between me and the drink.

“I want it all out of my office.” I open my laptop and bring up the new member requests that need approving before Sarah has a chance to ask. My eyes bug when I see Chris’s name on the list. Fuck me, he didn’t waste any time. I work my way through, scrutinizing the endorsements as I go before checking them off. I can feel Sarah’s incredulous glare burning through me, but I ignore it and move to the next spreadsheet. I frown at the list of bad debtors, dozens of them, but one name stands out. Coral. The direct debit for her membership has been rejected. Twice. “What’s the deal with Coral?” I ask, looking up at Sarah, who has managed to talk her legs into making it to my desk.

Her smile is ironic. And annoying. “You’re the one around here who’s in the know about all things Coral,” she replies, taking a seat.

I can’t hold back my scowl. “That was a mistake.” I return to the screen, and Sarah laughs.

“Which time?”