I tapped the glass for the driver.
“Take me back to my penthouse,” I said.
The car left the gala and cut through downtown Los Angeles.
I sat in the back seat watching the city move past the tinted glass while the last of the blunt burned down between my fingers.
Women left.
Women got angry.
Women tried to prove things.
That wasn’t new.
But her standing beside Marcus in a room full of sharks was something different.
Which meant I needed to check temperatures.
The car pulled into the underground entrance of my crib twenty minutes later. Security cleared the garage before we even stopped moving. The elevator took me straight up without a single pause.
By the time I stepped into my place, I felt exhausted, but I couldn’t sleep.
I loosened my tie and poured a drink without turning on any lights.
The bourbon hit the glass slowly.
I took the first sip, standing at the window.
Los Angeles looked peaceful from this height.
It never was.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and dialed the first number.
Naomi.
It rang twice.
Then went straight to voicemail.
I smiled faintly and hung up.
I knew she’d never betray me.
Naomi had too much pride for that.
And too much sense.
She was ignoring me because that was her way of surviving the breakup. Not because she was plotting revenge.
I respected that.
I moved on to the next number.
Amara.
The one everybody assumed would cause problems because she was the youngest.
