Page 53 of This Woman Forever

I skid to a stop, just as Ava faces me, the door open. “You’ll do anything?” she asks, her face painfully stoic.

“Yes.” Shut the door, please shut the door. “You know that.”

“Then you’ll give me some space.” She backs out, the door closes, and I stare at the wood, shocked into stillness.

And that’s where I stay, a frozen form of a broken man, for an age.

She’s gone.

“Gone,” I whisper, instantly numb. But in so much fucking pain. I push a hand through my hair, my eyes burning, remaining on the door. The sound of my phone ringing in the distance is what eventually pulls me from my inertness. I don’t rush to answer it, letting it ring off. It won’t be Ava. I drag my heavy gaze across the penthouse, listening to the screaming silence, seeing the empty space. “What now?” I ask myself. I look down at my naked body and rub roughly at my eyes.

Vodka.

“No,” I grate, angry, the devil on my shoulder reminding me of what will fix this.

Not vodka, Daddy.

I gasp, staggering to a nearby wall and placing a palm onto the plaster to hold myself up, my head hanging. “Not vodka,” I say, listening to the angel on my other shoulder. My baby girl. My dead baby girl. I sniff, my lip curling, turning and facing the wide-open space. “Never again, do you hear me?” I bellow, physically smacking at my shoulder, like I can squash that devil. “It will never happen again!” I swipe a hand out and knock a vase off the cabinet, sending it flying across the room. It bounces off the floor twice before finally succumbing to the impact and smashing to pieces. The sound kills the quiet, kills the noise in my head. I savor it, hope the shards hitting the floor echoing around me never stops.

Then it does.

Vodka.

I exhale, try to breathe long, deep, controlled breaths.

Ava.

Raking a hand through my hair, I pad around the glass, watching carefully as I place each foot down, going upstairs. I get my phone, seeing a missed call from John. I can’t even find the will to try and sound okay. I’ll call him back when I can.

Give me space.

I drop my arse to the end of the bed, my elbows to my knees, and dial her, not bothering to lift my mobile to my ear. The silence means I can hear it ringing perfectly well. Voicemail. I hang up, try again. Ringing. Voicemail. Again. The same. I swallow, opening up my messages. Ava’s the last person I’ve texted.

I REALLY love you

I REALLY know

I feel my lip wobble as I type out a message, struggling to see the screen through my hazy vision.

Give me space.

I throw my phone aside on a gruff, frustrated bawl and get up, getting some shorts on and slipping my feet into some flip-flops, refusing to look at Ava’s parts of the dressing room, then I grab my phone and head downstairs. I look at the mess before me. This is what I will do. Clean up my mess before I start with the mess that I’ve made of my life. I put on some music—Chasing Cars, because I need to be punished more—and rootle through the laundry room until I find a broom and a dustpan. I take my time, no longer holding back the tears. I feel empty. A shell. Just going through the motions.

I stamp on the bin and empty the dustpan for the last time, taking it back to the laundry room and shoving it on the shelf. Then I go to the fridge. Open it. Scan the shelves. Close the door. I put myself on a stool. Stare at my mobile. I drag it over and dial her again. No answer. So I open my messages and click send on the one I typed out earlier.

I can’t be without you, Ava

Dragging myself to the couch, I drop to my arse and stare out of the glass at London. Holding my phone.

And that’s where I stay until the gray sky disappears and blackness replaces it.

She doesn’t call or reply.

My bones creak when I eventually stand. I head upstairs, slow, weary, pull on a sweatshirt, and head out, grabbing my keys from the concierge as I pass. Sam calls me as I’m pulling out the gates of Lusso. I could ignore it, but after shirking John’s call, I’m at risk of raising alarm bells and one of them calling Ava.

“All right?” I answer, hearing myself. Low.

I’m not the only one. “Been better,” Sam replies. “I think Kate and I are done.”