I sigh, setting my glass of whiskey down on the bar with a dull clink, rubbing my hand over my face. Another long fucking day. All I wanted was to pick up my 6 year old daughter, Delilah, after work—hold her, spend a few hours forgetting the rest of the world even existed. But no, my ex—wife, Clara, texted me at the last second, said our daughter was sleeping over at a friend’s house instead.

So now here I am in an upscale bar in London. Alone. Drinking. Pathetic.

I’m halfway through convincing myself to just call it a night when I feel a presence beside me. Out of habit, I glance over.

She’s stunning. Big eyes, glowing skin. She looks like she can’t be a day over twenty.

Way too fucking young for me.

I could be wrong though. I hope so.

I shift a little on my stool, immediately aware of the pounding in my temples—not from the whiskey, but from the flashing headlines I already know would rip me apart if anyone caught even a glimpse of this.

“Hey, can I just ask… how old are you?” I ask, casual but guarded, offering a small smile.

If I am right and she’s not a day over 20 I have to end this conversation.

The press would absolutely rip me to shreds if they saw me—31 years old with a 20 year old.