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Christopher isn’t merely replacing me. He’s making sure I witness it. Every nasty sliver.

He’s taken over the Landia meetings entirely now. I remain the project lead on a formal basis, but that’s all. When I ask whether they need revised figures, he gives me his polished Otley smile.

“We have everything under control.”

The Parker and Otley interests, fully aligned.

Happy families.

Christopher talks about the wedding whenever I’m close enough to hear him. The venue shortlist. The guest list. The scale of the reception.

He gushes about his time with Alice. How pleasant it is to be so adored.

Every time I hear her name, I feel ill. Physically sick.

Alice hasn’t accepted a single art viewing since Hammersmith. I’ve heard about it on the grapevine. Helena Mercer apparently approached her about creating another large-scale work, and several other galleries have been trying to get hold of her. Her name is alive in the art circuit, but it feels like she’s far out of reach.

I miss her so badly sometimes that I stop breathing when I hear her name.

I miss Jack, too. I miss him so much, I feel like a fool.

That’s a lot harder to admit to myself after Bill’s tirade and the repercussions, but it’s true.

He messaged me a few times, but barely anything. No calls. No house visits. Nothing that would indicate he really did give a toss about any of it.

I haven’t read any of the messages, because I can’t. If I do, one of two things will happen.

Jack will prove Bill absolutely right. He’ll make jokes. Dismiss what happened. Tell me to stop being dramatic and return to his place for a round of ass fucking. No strings, baby.

Or he’ll prove me wrong. He might apologise. He might tell me he misses me.

And then, because the pain of loss is so hard to bear, I might lose my grip on reality and go back.

Sometimes, when work is finally done for the night, the memories arrive without invitation. Jack asleep with his head in Alice’s lap. Alice sketching while I pretended to watch the television. So many shared toasties, I lost count.

I miss him so much that anger is the only thing keeping me sane.

He did this. He chose this route. He was the one whose actions led to this shit situation.

I went round to his straight after I left the auction house, while he was still drinking away like a social fucking dickhead. I collected everything and promised myself I was out, but it was hard.

I stood there with my overnight bag in one hand, staring at the empty space I’d created, and nearly put everything back.

Then I remembered Jack shrugging at me, with his nonchalant smirk. As though my livelihood meant sweet fuck all.

I was sensible. Rational. I chose the man who gave me a career over the one who treated it like a joke.

That should’ve made me feel safe, but it hasn’t. It’s made me feel more alone than I’ve ever felt in my life.

I’m busying myself with a shitty, low-level report when Adrian Whitmore arrives at Parker Capital at almost 4 p.m.

I see him through the glass wall of my office, walking beside Caroline, and I’m not expecting him. I check the calendar and there is no meeting showing. Not to me.

Adrian Whitmore is in his late fifties, broad-shouldered and professionally dressed without looking overly polished. He listens properly when people speak, remembers the names of junior staff and shakes hands as though the person matters more than the position they hold. He’s a nice guy. Professional and genuine. I’ve been involved with him for nearly a decade, and he introduced himself with warmness, right from the start.

He used to remind me of Bill. Two very different men with similar values.

Or that was what I thought.