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It reaches into places I’ve kept locked up for years.

I’m not sure whether I miss BT so much it hurts, or want to give him the finger for being such a twat.

It varies.

I went half a million pounds beyond the agreed limit because I wanted the very best for Alice I could get.

I antagonised William Parker because I enjoyed watching him realise his daughter had something beyond his reach. Something he couldn’t control.

I exposed Bryce’s involvement because I wanted Parker to know Bryce belonged with me, too. I wanted him to understand that Bryce had chosen my side.

Our side.

I wanted to win, and I did.

Alice’s triptych sold for crazy money. Helena Mercer validated her career in front of everyone who had ever treated it like an expensive hobby. Her stuck-up father could no longer dismiss her work, and Christopher fucking Otley couldn’t claim the sale belonged to a besotted casino owner, because auction results don’t lie.

We created exactly the result we planned. All of us.

But Alice left terrified, Bryce walked away furious, and I returned to an empty apartment that both of them had disappeared from.

One victory.

Three casualties.

I put down my coffee. I take a deep breath.

Now that The Gilded Table is devoid of action, I need to find something to fill the gap. Hookup profiles, champagne, and not giving a toss isn’t going to be enough for me. Not anymore.

I go through to the bedroom, weirdly nervous as I begin to put the next plan into action.

Esme Calder’s portrait is there to greet me. The one I bought because Bryce would love it.

It arrived yesterday morning, wrapped in enough protective material to survive an around the world courier service, and at first I refused to open it. Stupid thing.

Now, it’s hanging opposite Bryce’s side of the bed, exactly where I imagined it, only Bryce hasn’t seen it for himself.

The obscured face stares back at me through fractures of gold.

Three hundred and twenty thousand pounds for a daily reminder of a man who refuses to speak to me.

Excellent investment.

Fuck it. I head into the dressing room and pick out a suit.

Black.

Single-breasted.

Perfectly cut.

Nothing flamboyant enough to suggest I’m a swagger fuelled playboy arriving at my own casino. Just… elegant. Refined.

Adult.

I pick up the suit jacket then put it down again.

Should I do this?