He wasn’t family, but he was on the payroll and kept me up to date on the comings and goings in the building.

My men had a presence in this building, though it wasn’t completely ours.

That was risky on some levels, but I liked to keep some distance.

I’d watched it all my life, men who became insular, which led to paranoia, which inevitably led to a spectacular downfall.

My father had been well on that road, and I swore to myself I wouldn’t let that happen to me.

So the rich widow with the three dogs, the professional athlete, the social media superstar who all had places in this building helped keep me somewhat grounded in the real world. Even though I made it a point to never speak to any of them.

I parked and said, “Wait for me,” before I got out of the car.

She ignored me and instead took off her seatbelt, opened her door, and got out of the car.

That was more of what I expected, but I didn’t like it.

I stepped in front of her and reached for her hand. She flinched away from me and pulled her hand out of reach.

My reaction was instinctual, all of me completely rejecting the idea of her trying to keep me at arm’s length.

I grabbed her hand and linked my fingers with hers. She pulled but soon enough recognized that trying to get away was futile.

I didn’t let her go as we crossed the garage, got into my private elevator—a perk that I had insisted on—and went to my apartment.

It struck me then how natural this seemed, Kayla’s hand in mine.

In some ways, it made sense.

Kayla had been there at my side for years, so much so that I had forgotten what it was like for her not to be.

And in those hours when she had been missing, I realized that her not being there was intolerable.

“You’re hurting me,” she said quietly.

Her voice was monotone, but I loosened the grip I hadn’t even realized I had tightened.

But I didn’t let her go.

I let her into the apartment, halfway worried that she was going to go into shock.

I studied her, trying to read her expression, and again saw nothing.

I wanted to do something, anything, to get a reaction out of her.

But I pressed that impulse down and instead led her deeper into the apartment.

She remained impassive when I started to fill the bathtub.

She cleared her throat. “Can I have a moment?” she asked.

I didn’t answer but left long enough to get a bottle of water and a glass of whisky.

When I walked back into the bathroom, she was brushing her teeth, scrubbing them so hard I was sure it hurt.