“Peter Pan,” I reply, and he scowls. “Ward. It’s Ward. Jesse Ward, owner of the penthouse.” I’m going to lose my patience in a minute. “Now, would you mind?”

“I’m going to need to see some identification.” His chest puffs out, his chin high.

“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, dragging my wallet out and flashing him my driver’s license. “Happy, Kojak?”

He approaches, taking it, inspecting it. I express my boredom with a drawn-out sigh, my jaw ticking. “Welcome, Mr. Ward.” He beams up at me, and I laugh my disbelief. “Let me show you up.”

“Thanks,” I grate, reminding myself that the concierge is old and here to serve me for the foreseeable. Don’t burn your bridges, Ward. “Very kind of you.” I smile, completely over the top, and he narrows an eye, reaching past me to call the lift.

I board and watch him enter the code for the penthouse. “Enjoy your evening, sir.” He exits, leaving the doors to close.

“I will,” I say, inspecting myself in the mirror, ruffing up my hair.

“Hold the lift!”

I freeze, my hand in my hair. What the fucking hell? Did she not fucking hear me? The doors open, and Sarah appears, dressed in her usual skin-tight trousers and boob-enhancing top. I give her a tired look, and she smiles knowingly, stepping in. Not surprisingly, the bulldog concierge is hot on her heels. “She’s with me,” I tell him. I should have kept my mouth shut. Let him bite at her ankles and drag her out, because I do not want her here. He backs off and the doors start to close again. “You just couldn’t fucking help yourself, could you?”

“I want to see your new place.” She goes into her purse and reapplies her red lipstick.

“You’ve seen it.”

“I’ve forgotten.” She smacks her lips and gives me a coy smile. “You trying to impress someone?” Her eyes travel the length of my new suit.

“You will be nice,” I warn.

“Of course.” The lift opens and she’s out in a shot, smiling and sashaying through my new home, which is currently bursting at the seams with people. Fuck me, it’s heaving. I stare, stunned, wishing them all the fuck out of here. All except Ava.

I ignore the waitress who offers a tray of champagne as I enter, but accept the brochure handed to me by another guy. I don’t waste my breath telling him I don’t need one.

Chris, Drew’s estate agent nemesis, spots me, hurrying over, probably to fill me in on his adventures at The Manor. “Mr. Ward,” he says, offering me his hand. “Good to see you.”

“How are you doing, Chris?” I ask, my eyes darting, searching for her.