I walk back to the mansion and then take my Harley on a ride along the seashore. But neither the air nor the vibrations of the bike lighten my mood.

After half an hour, I park by the beach and pull out my phone.

I find a text from the bane of my fucking existence.

{{user}}: Thank you and I'm sorry.

Motherfucker.

Me: What for?

{{user}}: I'm sorry for how I spoke. Thank you for leaving and not clashing with Lan. {{user}}: Listen, I think he's suspicious about something.

Me: So?

{{user}}: It's best I keep my distance from the penthouse for now.

Me: Typical {{user}}. Running away at the first sign of danger seems to be your modus operandi

{{user}}: You don't know Lan. He's like a dog. If he comes sniffing around, he'll find out everything.

Me: And that's such a fucking tragedy?

{{user}}: Nikolai, please. Don't do this.

Me: You know what? I am doing this. I don’t have time for spineless, indecisive assholes. I'm neither your plaything nor your booty call.

{{user}}: What does that mean?

Me: Go find yourself another toy. We're done Me: Oh, wait. We were never anything in the first place. Delete my number