SHE tripped. It was not his fault the Oompa-Loompa intern was crazy and a klutz.

"Sigh."

Sinclair paced his bedroom's twenty-by-ten foot custom walk-in closet like an agitated predator. He winced ad electricity crackled in his brain. A storm was coming.

I need to decompress.

His luxurious dressing room had vaulted ceilings and was constructed of priceless mahogany wood, gold-veined marble, and polished glass. His wardrobe contained an unvarying collection of designer jeans, dark shirts, and expensive sneakers. He halted in front of a floor-length mirror and stared at his haggard reflection as he undid his tie. Another sleepless night, and he was a wreck. He gingerly touched the bags under his eyes.

Shit. I've aged ten years in the last three months.

Evelyn Simmons—this was her fault. The insufferable woman had invaded his dreams like an unwelcome specter. He couldn't get her out of his mind. He visualized her soft gazelle eyes filled with tears and his hands clenched.

My fault she cried. I was cruel. He clutched his chest.

Why does my heart feel like it's being rubbed raw with coarse sandpaper? Why can't I stop thinking about sleeping with her?

Fuck.

Is this guilt?

Bullying the pretty intern had boomeranged on him with tactical precision. Anguish ricocheted in his chest like a stinging projectile. He grimaced at the crushing pain, not to mention the unfulfilled desire that tormented his crotch.

Motherfucker this hurts. She probably hates me.

Scowling, he left his full-length vanity mirror and walked past a collection of rare, limited-edition sneakers. Fashion footwear was the one personal luxury he allowed himself to indulge in. He selected a pair of Balenciaga Adidas leather and mesh trainers, put them on and walked back to his desk. His heels bounced while he silently cursed. Unable to focus on his holographic desktop, he called his therapist, Julian Dayton.

"Raymond, it's seven am. Why are you calling? This is outside my regular office hours. I'll have to bill you for the call."

"Do whatever you have to. Isn't the reason I'm calling obvious? I'm experiencing control issues. They're affecting my work and I can't afford to be distracted."

"We discussed your lack of impulse control a mere twenty-four hours ago." Sinclair heard plates moving in the background as his therapist made breakfast. He imagined the money-grubbing, five hundred dollar-an-hour shrink dressed in blue silk pajamas and stifling a yawn as he poured himself a cup of aromatic black coffee.

Sinclair mouth tightened. The bastard thrives on pain like a starving spider with a trussed up juicy fly. He should be happy to hear from me.

Dayton had diagnosed him with BPD, a borderline personality disorder with the tendency to split from his emotions. He admitted he had the tendency to simultaneously love and hate, but he suspected the therapist knew that the diagnosis would freak him out and make him need more therapy.

"Are you doing those self-soothing exercises I gave you?" In the background, he heard what he imagined was farm-fresh butter sizzling in a frying pan.

"What exercises?" He rubbed his temple. "Listen, Julian, this split emotion disorder you diagnosed me with... I've been thinking... maybe it's a psychological asset. Wasn't that Batman's superpower? Kickass CEO by day, high-tech vigilante by night?" He wasn't running around in a rubber cape and mask, grappling anyone with a Batarang. He frowned. Did his DC Caped Crusader high-top Converse count in that respect.

Probably.

"Batman was a psychopathic fictional character with severe depression. Not a role model you should emulate. You'll never experience a harmonious relationship with anyone until you heal your wounded inner child. Raymond, I need you to work on being emotionally present like we discussed." He heard eggs being cracked into the pan. "If you want, we can schedule a mid-week session to discuss your relapse."

"I'm not having a relapse, you useless idiot. I'm having a breakthrough. Are you even awake?"

"Excuse me?"

"I'm done with you." He ended the call and shoved his demons—self-doubt and loathing—into the abyss of his psyche. Smothering his pain, which smoldered like an underground toxic landfill fire, he replaced his mask of aloof confidence.

Everything's fine.

He unclenched his fists and forced himself to relax. In hindsight, he saw how fitting it was for the Oompa Loompa to go down in a ball of flames. Making an explosive sound with his mouth, he tossed a wadded ball of paper overhand into a sleek, Madagascar ebony trash bin.

The rest of his apartment was decorated with austere, unvarnished furnishings inspired by the interior of a sacred Japanese temple he and his ex-girlfriend had once visited. They had planned to be married at the Joganji Temple in Tokyo. His snigger ended in a silent sob as he massaged his chest to loosen a growing tightness.

I'm having a heart attack.

He exhaled as he recalled Evelyn's creamy skin. How tendrils of auburn hair had escaped from her sleek, tight ponytail. He wanted to trace the edge of her cheek with his fingertip. Her bone structure took his breath away. And those deep brown eyes that were surrounded by long, thick lashes that grew restless like butterflies when she was nervous. She was passionate about her job and took risks, always looking at him with intelligent warmth in her eyes and a questioning smile.

He couldn't stop imagining how she would quench his desire if he crushed her strawberry-colored lips with his and tenderly kissed her.

Mouthwatering sherbet on a hot summer day. He ran his tongue over chapped lips.

Craving that sensual sensation, he strode to his well-stocked refrigerator and pulled out a popsicle. He bit down on the frozen tip of the flavored icicle and savored the cold dessert, letting the chunk of ice turn into a syrupy pool of strawberry liquor in his mouth. It was too soon to think of dating someone new. He hadn't recovered from his nightmare relationship with Satoshi Nakamoto. What she had done to him with her body and these flavored icicles after she tied him up had driven him to unbearable ecstasy.

I love you, Raymond. Tilt your head a little to the left while I drain your jugular.

She had been a deadly combination of ruthless and brilliant as she lulled him into a false sense of security. And then sabotaged one of the biggest deals CENTIEN had ever brokered.

Heartless bitch.

With her help, her father's company had snatched a billion-dollar, five-year contract out from under his nose. Now the bank had his balls in a nutcracker—an ever-tightening vice. The credit lines had dried up, and CENTIEN was in a financial death spiral. His mouth turned down, and his muscular shoulders slumped. His life had been destroyed because he had fallen head over heels in love with a viper.

He shielded himself with anger and wiped the vulnerable look of pain from his face. No woman—no matter how sweet or beautiful—would ever slip past his formidable defenses again. His attraction to Evelyn Summers was a huge chink in his emotional armor. He delegated her email to the Garbage-In Garbage-Out bin on his desktop.

Problem solved.

He encountered over a hundred nubile females each day—ninety nine percent of them wanted to bed him. Like Buffy Gates. He frowned.

No...bad example—she was a freak of nature. A high IQ blonde.

He shuddered as he recalled how the nymphomaniac had cornered him in an empty hallway one evening. He would rather be slathered in peanut butter and thrown in bed with a rabid pit bull than pleasure her. If she hadn't been Will Gates' granddaughter, he would have banned her from the intern program. Gates was a crucial microprocessor chip supplier. A power player in the industry—someone he couldn't afford to alienate.

He picked up the self-help book Dennis had given him, How to Win Friends and Influence People, and snorted. In his opinion, the book was outdated garbage. He followed the advice to a T, but the interns still hated him. Every ridiculous joke he attempted fell flat and alienated his underlings even further. He tossed the hardback onto his bureau. Comedy was dead in this day and age—old school ribbing had gone the way of the dinosaur.

Perhaps, I'm not far behind.

He stretched his shoulders and loosened the tight muscles in his back. One of the benefits of being single after three years of being in a relationship was that he could do whatever the hell he pleased. Why throw in the towel so fast? He was getting older, but he was still a catch. The twenty-fourth richest man on the planet, at least on paper. He had numerous redeeming qualities. He was a good cook. A terrific driver—very attuned to danger. Why wasn't he happy? Why wasn't his corporate empire enough?

He didn't need his shrink to explain. He flattened both hands on his head and leaned his elbows on his desk. He was a lonely billionaire who was going broke. As outdated as a flaccid floppy disk. He attracted gold diggers like flies on a steaming pile of horse shit. Everyone would go to the penthouse bar and celebrate like it was nineteen-ninety-nine when he checked out—like he had done when his father died.

Everyone, except Dennis. The tightness in his chest loosened as he recalled how he'd met his best friend, Dennis Lear, a budding financial wizard, at their Technical college. He ran a hand through his thick hair.

What was that line from Tequila Sunrise?

You can't choose family, only friends. Sometimes, even friends turned on you.

His laptop received an angry email from Lori Jacobs demanding to meet with him after the marketing meeting. He promptly dumped her message into his desktop trash bin. If she wasn't such a detail-oriented hard ass, he would have strapped a Golden Parachute to her broad back and ejected her to the curb years ago.

A text from Dennis pinged his phone.

WE HAVE AN URGENT PERSONNEL PROBLEM. MEET ME AT YOUR OFFICE—10 AM.

He looked at his CENTIEN smart watch. He had approximately forty-five minutes to get to the adjacent office building via rail car. If he had to guess, this impromptu meeting with his overworked CFO was regarding that pain-in-the-ass Oompa-Loompa and her ball-buster sidekick, Lori Jacobs.