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.

He dismisses the one on the left and continues the conversation with the remaining woman. She’s in her late fifties, tall and slim and with the look of someone very capable. He introduced me to her earlier as Ms. Ives, his permanent London assistant. As far as I can tell, one of her primary duties is acting as the liaison between Sofia’s residential treatment facility and Damien.

I’m still fuzzy on why such massive resources are devoted to Sofia’s mental health. I understand that she’s a friend, but as far as I know, Damien doesn’t assign assistants to keep tabs on all of his friends.

“Let me know the moment you get through to Alaine,” he says to her. Alaine is now a chef in Los Angeles, but since he and Sofia and Damien were tight in their youth, Damien is hoping that he’s heard from her. He moves behind his desk and glances down at the neat piles of paper. “And since I’m in town anyway, bring me the projections on the Newton project.”

“Of course, Mr. Stark.” She pauses in her exit to nod at me. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Fairchild. I’m sorry the circumstances couldn’t have been more pleasant.”

“A pleasure to meet you, too,” I say. I remain by the window until the door shuts behind her, then I move to Damien’s side. “Any luck?”

“Unfortunately, no. She checked herself out of the most recent rehab facility about a week ago, and no one’s heard from her since.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

He grimaces. “It’s not the first time, but usually she turns up after a few days back in her apartment in St. Albans, drunk or stoned off her ass and ready to go get dried out again.”

“How old is she?”

“Twenty-nine. A year younger than me.”

I nod, digesting the information. “And she’s in rehab voluntarily? I mean, a judge didn’t put her there?”

“Sometimes I think it would be easier if one did,” he says flatly. “But no, it’s voluntary.”

“I see,” I say, but of course, I don’t. His desk is the size of the bathroom I share with Jamie, and made of chrome and glass and polished teak. I hop up on it, letting my legs dangle as I think about what he’s told me—and about what he hasn’t. “I get that you’re worried something happened to her,” I say. “What I don’t understand is why. She’s an adult and she checked out legitimately. Maybe she just decided to travel. To go hang with some other friends. They said she was almost dried out, right? Maybe she wants to prove to herself that she can operate sober on her own.”

I expect him to shoot me down. To tell me—rightfully—that I don’t know a thing about this girl. Instead, he seems to seriously consider my words.