Don’t ask, Ward. I narrow my eyes and go to my desk. Sarah joins me, crossing one leather-clad leg over the other, sitting back, getting comfortable, her accusing eyes nailed to me. “You didn’t need me to pack your apartment up at all, did you?”

“No, and it’s a good job since you didn’t fucking do it.” I start smashing at the keys on my laptop. What is it with her, sticking her fucking nose into my business all the time? Although, Sarah has always stuck her nose into my business. Not that I have much business outside the walls of The Manor. I’ve never been so defensive before. But now . . .

“What is it about her?” she asks.

It’s exactly what John asked. Except I can’t share with Sarah. Won’t. And it’s a moot point now, anyway. Ava walked away. I’m done. It’s finished. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I can’t sit here under her interrogating stare. “I have things to do.” I get up and round my desk, mentally scratching around for what it is I need to do exactly. Nothing. Everything here is fine, always is, whether I’m absent in mind or body or not.

“Tomorrow night,” she calls, and I frown, keeping up my stride. “We have a meeting with a few members about another member.”

“Can’t make it,” I call without thought, my frown deepening. What the fuck else am I going to do? My eyes land on my new suit as I take the handle. “You’ll have to manage it on your own.”

“Why, where will you be?”

Probably punishing myself. “Otherwise engaged,” I say, turning and flashing her a smile that won’t fool her. I close the door, my smile drops, and I rest my forehead on the wood. I cannot go to the launch. I cannot call her, see her, pursue her.

There’s something.

Oh God.

I want to see you.

My fist comes up and pushes into the wood firmly, my eyes clenching. “Just fuck off out of my head, woman.”

Don’t stop this.

I don’t want to.

“Then why the fuck did you?” I ask quietly, squeezing my fists as I push myself off the door. I pull my phone out. Dial her. “Answer, baby,” I whisper, mentally praying. I know I’m praying for a miracle. I’m not even blessed with fairness, so a miracle is way out of my reach. “Come on, come on.” I turn my face to the ceiling. Is there a god? Would he hear me? Listen to me?

No.

It goes to voicemail, and my face screws up in agony at yet another rejection. I punch the door, angered. She’s scared. Scared to talk to me, scared to face me.