We say our goodbyes and continue outside to the valet stand. “Maybe I was imagining it?” I say to Damien once we’re safe outside. I’m talking about the girl, of course, and it’s obvious that Damien has followed my thinking. I want to believe that it was all innocent, but there was a definite flirt vibe going on, and I have a feeling that if I’d gone to meet Ollie for a drink in his room one night, the odds were good I wouldn’t have found him alone.

“You weren’t,” Damien says, “and it’s going to bite him in the ass. Maybe not because of this girl, but because he’s living in a fantasy world, and eventually reality is going to catch up to him.”

“I know,” I say. “Ollie’s always been a master of denial.”

The limo arrives and the valet holds the door open while the bellman moves to the end of the car to load the trunk with our luggage. Damien lingers to tip the staff, but I go ahead and get in, my mind still on what he said about reality. Because he’s right. Eventually reality catches up with everyone. The only question is, can you survive when it does?

The moment Damien gets into the limo, I can tell that he knows what I’m thinking. His expression softens, and he settles in next to me, silently taking my hand. He doesn’t say anything until we are off of the city streets and on the A9 heading toward the airport. The gap in the conversation doesn’t matter, though. I understand exactly what he’s talking about when he turns to me and says simply, “Different realities, Nikki. You and I are together, and we can withstand whatever the world throws at us.”

I draw in a deep breath, forcing myself not to ask the question that seems lodged in my throat, begging for release: Are you sure? Can we survive? Can we really make it after the bubble bursts?

Damien goes on, either unaware of or ignoring my unspoken words that seem to me like such an elephant in the room. “Ollie has the chance to have what we have. To be part of something special. But he’s scared and now he’s sabotaging his own happiness.” He reaches out and strokes my cheek with the back of his hand, the gesture so sweet I am certain that I will cry. “I’m not scared,” he says. “Not about that. And neither are you.”

I nod, because he’s right. There are still a lot of things that I am afraid of, but being with Damien is not one of them.

“What did Lisa have to say?” Damien asks, and I have to once again marvel at how perceptive this man is. I am not afraid of being with Damien, but I still have sharp bouts of fear with regard to running my own business. And as a business consultant, Lisa is not only a friend, but also a potential colleague.

“She says one of her clients is moving to Boston and wants to sublet a space in Sherman Oaks at a pretty steep discount.”

“That’s excellent news,” Damien says.

“Maybe,” I say. “I’m still not sure I need it.” My start-up business has been a frequent topic of conversation between Damien and me throughout our time in Germany. Not only did I legitimately want his thoughts—after all, who better to take business advice from than a self-made billionaire?—but talking about my entrepreneurial adventures kept the focus off the trial.

Damien is convinced that I should go ahead and set up shop somewhere and hire myself out as an app designer for small businesses while I work on larger projects. I see his point, but that doesn’t mean I’m not nervous.

“At the very least, you should meet with her and talk about the possibility. She’s sharp and has a good reputation and a solid client base. She can help you.”

I make a face, but I know he’s right. I know, because we already had this argument after he told me that he had his office run a background check on Lisa, just to make sure she was legit. I’d aimed a few choice curses in his direction and told him that I’d handle my own goddamned due diligence. He told me to say thank you for taking that burden off my shoulders.

The night had ended in a bath with candles, but that didn’t mean I hadn’t been irritated.

The bottom line, though, is that I like Lisa. The times we’ve talked, we’ve hit it off. And I’m new enough to Los Angeles to crave the addition of a few more friends to the small circle I’ve gathered since I’ve moved to LA. Resolved, I email back that I’d love to meet with her. Then I drop my phone in my purse and try not to hyperventilate.

Beside me, Damien laughs. “You did good,” he says. “I’ll even take you out to lunch to celebrate. How do you feel about fish and chips?”

“Fish and chips?”

“I need to make a stop in London.”

“All right. Sofia?”

“Do you mind?”

“Of course not.” I don’t know much about Sofia other than that she had a rocky childhood, and that she and Damien and his friend Alaine were tight during his tennis days. I know that she’s been in and out of trouble recently, and that Damien has been frustrated by her inability to get her shit together, as he puts it.

I also know that she was the first woman he slept with, but they’ve been only friends for a long time.

“Is she okay?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” he says, then runs his fingers through his hair. “She’s missing again.” He looks ripped, but he reaches for my hand, and I squeeze it tight.

“Whatever you need,” I say. “Anytime, anyplace.”

I have never been to London, and I can’t say that I’m seeing much of it on this journey. We went straight from Damien’s jet to his limo to his office. During the course of that ride, I saw traffic and people and buildings that are significantly older than any we have in either Texas or Los Angeles. But I didn’t see the Tower Bridge or Buckingham Palace or even a British pop star. In a way, I’m glad. This is hardly a vacation stop. On the other hand, who knows when I’ll be back this way again?

Now we’re at the London office of Stark International. It’s located in the Canary Wharf business district, and Damien’s office takes up one half of the thirty-eighth floor. The building is ultra modern, as is the furniture. Damien spent most of the short plane ride at my side, organizing a plan for locating Sofia while I made some notes about a smartphone app I’ve been pondering and sent Jamie and Evelyn both emails telling them we were on our way home and mentioning that I am—gasp—seriously considering leasing office space.

Now, I’m alone. I stand idly by the window and stare out into this dreary, overcast day. I have a view of the Thames, but not much else, and even that famous river doesn’t really draw my attention. My thoughts are twisting and turning when Damien comes back to his office, flanked by two efficient-looking women carrying electronic tablets and taking diligent notes.