I am never falling in love again.
The rumors are enough to drive anyone fucking insane, but this recurring heart attack is more than I want to handle. Certainly more than I’m ever going to admit to another human.
They wouldn’t believe me anyway.
I work my jaw as the buildings we’re rushing past swim back into view. Noah will drive around for the rest of the evening, and all night, if I stay silent.
“The Four Seasons,” I rasp, then swallow, trying to make my voice sound normal. “Call ahead for the penthouse. Get yourself a room.” If I can’t be in my own penthouse, then I want to be at the top of the Four Seasons, as far away from the leeches on the street as possible.
Noah takes his cell out of his pocket without a second’s thought. He waits until we’re stopped at a light to swipe through his contacts and place the call. I tune him out after I’ve heard him drop the fake name that signals a priority client to the hotel reservations line.
My heart rate speeds up, panic and anxiety setting in again, and I stare out the window, forcing myself to read every marquee above the business to calm my racing thoughts.
Fuck this.
People can think what they want about me. They can say what they want about me. But I’m not going to let them run me out of town. I was here first.
Noah pulls up in front of the Four Seasons and hops out of the driver’s side. “I’ll be right back.” He reappears a few minutes later and opens the back door, a small cardboard envelope tucked in his hand. “Lobby’s clear. You ready, boss?”
I respond by climbing out of the backseat and rising onto the sidewalk, back ramrod straight, shoulders thrown back. Noah’s right, as usual. The lobby is deserted except for two receptionists, and gentle music drowns out the sound of our shoes as they echo against the gleaming tiles. I’m fucking dying to be by myself.
There’s a private elevator leading directly up to the penthouse, accessed by one of the keys Noah pulls out of the envelope. Once we get above the fortieth floor, my stomach churns. Don’t think about her. Don’t.
I can’t stop myself. Elisa would have loved this place.
Both Noah and I step out of the elevator into the expansive suite. It’s quiet like a cathedral, everything in its interior shining and spotless.
He whistles. “Damn.”
I hardly see any of it. The floor-to-ceiling windows frame a stunning view of the skyline, framing the sun as it sets brilliantly over the cityscape, its vibrant hues of oranges, reds and deep yellows coating the room with subtle warmth. I should feel relieved. I should feel at home.
Instead I feel numb, stiff, braced for the next wave of anxiety.
Noah turns to me and presses the envelope into my hand. “I’m on the forty-second floor, if you need anything.”
I give him a nod, my throat too tight to speak, and he claps me on the shoulder like he’s my grandfather. “Order some food at least, boss. Nobody wants you to starve to death.”
I give a bitter laugh. “Okay.”
Then he’s stepping back into the elevator, the door sliding shut soundlessly behind him, and I’m finally alone.
I wander through all nine rooms of the suite, staring out at the rapidly changing view as the sun sinks below the top lines of the buildings. Elisa’s laughter echoes in my memory. I can practically hear her exclaiming in glee about the enormous square tub in the master bathroom, at the master bedroom’s canopy bed with gold-threaded fabrics, at the views. My God, she would have loved the views.
I let out a deep sigh and rub at my chest.
Wallowing is not going to do me a damn bit of good.
I’ll have food sent up. I’ll eat. I’ll watch movies.
I’ll spend the weekend here, collecting myself, and when Monday comes, I’ll be able to make some decisions.
I’m in control of my life. Not the paparazzi camped out in front of my penthouse. Not the media. Not the Italian courts—at least not anymore. And not the ghost of the woman I loved and lost.
When Monday comes, I’ll go back to being Ace Kingsley, the man in charge, the man who takes what he wants, the man who never lets anything get to him.
When Monday comes, I’ll be invincible.
Chapter Three
Carolyn
Jess and I try on every dress at the boutique, finally settling on a lush emerald green one for her—it makes her look like a goddess—and a fitted fuchsia sheath for me. I don’t have Jess’s stunning blue eyes, but the bright pink next to my skin makes my dark orbs look more mysterious than boring.
She’s called in her prep team to the boutique, so at six o’clock I flip the elegantly calligraphed sign on the door to “closed” and lead the duo into a little setup I’ve got in the storage room—chair, vanity, lighted mirror.