Was she fucking faking?

“Get out of my house,” Alan barks, making me turn toward the doorway where he’s looking.

Carmichael’s there, and John is looming behind him, looking ominous. Of course they didn’t leave. Perhaps they wondered about Lauren too.

“I’m here to speak to my nephew,” Carmichael says, looking at me with . . . sympathy. It’s fucking sympathy.

“He’s busy tending to his wife and unborn child.” Alan remains unmoving.

“There’s nothing wrong with his wife and unborn child.”

Now, Alan moves forward, and as a result, John passes Carmichael and steps into the room. “We’re here to speak to Jesse,” he says, removing his shades, something that never happens unless he wants someone to see the threat in his eyes. And it’s there. Boy is it there. And so is something inside of me.

Hope.

The only two people in this world whom I can depend on are here.

Rescuing me from this madness.

9

The concierge opens the gates for me, and I pull into the car park of Lusso, my stomach doing cartwheels. Did she get the flowers? Did she like them? What did she think?

I park, get out, and straighten my new suit, taking in a deep breath, repeating the same mantra I have all day. Gently, gently. Talk to her, dazzle her. Show her she would be making a massive mistake if she doesn’t indulge me and explore the butterflies.

Butterflies.

Can’t say I’ve ever had them but, God, it’s a pretty fucking incredible feeling.

I stroll into the foyer and spot the concierge desk decorated with an elaborate spray of white calla lilies, and I can’t help but laugh under my breath, shaking my head to myself. Impossible woman.

“Sir.” A man appears from behind the desk. He’s short, gray, and his eyes travel up my front until his head is dropped back, looking at me. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here for the launch party.”

“Your name?”

“Ward.”

He goes to his clipboard, running a pen down the list. “I’m afraid you’re not down.”

“There must be a mistake.”

“No mistake,” he chirps. “And as the saying goes, if your name’s not down, you ain’t coming in.” He chuckles then stands tall, and it’s all I can do not to sigh. “It’s guests only.” Something tells me the concierge and I aren’t going to get along, especially if he tries to stop me going up to my own fucking penthouse. Especially now, when Ava’s there. I can virtually smell her in this building, in every crevice, her creative mark everywhere.

“I’m not a guest,” I tell him, walking to the lift. “I’m the owner.”

“Oh?” He peeks down at his clipboard again as I look back, smiling on the inside. “The name again, sir?” he asks, giving me his attention.