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It’s been six days since Bryce walked away from me at the auction house.

Six days since Alice made the choice to obey her father and retreat from her victory like a good girl.

Six days since either of them answered my messages.

Alice’s messages remain undelivered. Bryce receives everything, confirmed by the ticks. He doesn’t read them, though. Or that’s how it appears on the surface.

Weird how much that antagonises me after I’ve ghosted so many people over the years.

At least he hasn’t blocked me yet. His profiles still show up as available.

Damnit, BT, you absolute asshole.

I pour myself a coffee and stand at the kitchen island, resisting the urge to check my phone for the millionth time.

The Toastique Pro remains in front of me. Its own statement piece now.

I haven’t moved it, but I haven’t used it either.

The first few mornings I told myself I’d have whipped up a toastie if I had anything edible to use in it, I just didn’t like the French cheese. Then I deliberately avoided cheddar at the supermarket. Now the lie has become so ridiculous, I don’t bother inventing excuses.

I’m not using it because Bryce and Alice aren’t using it with me.

I’m not putting it away, because that would be putting them away, too.

Just a few weeks ago, three people stood around this island arguing about cheese as though they had nowhere else to be. Nowhere else that mattered.

Now, that’s all turned to shit.

My glorious penthouse apartment has been restored to order. I should be happy to be free of the chaos.

Alice’s scattered belongings went with her, and Bryce collected his stuff while I was still sipping champagne at the auction house. The efficient bastard didn’t waste any time at all.

I compensated for the aggro at the auction by drinking with a load of art enthusiasts while he took a case and packed himself away from my life. He took his clothes from the dressing room, his laptop charger from the kitchen, his shitty restoration book collection and his array of toiletries. He even took his spare toothbrush.

This place had never felt so empty as the moment I walked in through the door and found his keys waiting for me, posted through the letterbox.

Still, despite the absence of BT and Soul Girl, I haven’t filled their spaces. The cupboard above the coffee machine has a gap among the mugs for where Alice’s paint-stained monstrosity should be. Every time I open the door, I see the empty space before anything else.

Funny how the missing objects become larger than the ones left behind.

Bryce’s words have been following me around for six days.

What do you actually do with your life, hey?

Plenty.

I own a casino, for fuck’s sake. Part of one, at least. I make money. I invest. I fund an imaginary collective that has somehow become a credible presence in the London art market.

What do you care about when there aren’t any observers watching? When there’s nothing to win and no one to provoke?

Um, you two, you dickheads.

The answer arrived immediately, the moment he asked the question, but I didn’t give it to him. My bravado wouldn’t let me take the hit.

It’s easy to play the joker with other people’s lives, rather than focus on sorting out your own.

That one was savage, and it keeps replaying itself.