He’s hurt . . . I know he is.
My poor man seemingly has the whole world against him, and I’m so worried about him. How much stress can a man take before he cracks?
I get into the elevator and swipe my security card to the top floors, and a red light comes up. I frown. No. I swipe it again, and the red light flickers again.
“No, Jay . . . don’t do this,” I whisper through tears. “Don’t you f*****g lock me out.”
I swipe it again; the red light flickers once more. “You son of a b***h,” I whisper angrily. I hit the fortieth-floor button, and the green light appears. My heart begins to hammer hard in my chest. He’s blocked my access to his floor.
I take out my phone and text him.
Are you serious?
You can’t even talk to me?
The elevator doors open, and I stride out onto my floor as I try
