I've always hated traffic jams.
But today, the slow crawl through grey, glistening London was working for us. The longer we drove — the more time I had to keep myself in line. To avoid looking at her. Don't think. Don't let yourself lose your temper before we even enter the gym.
I was sitting on the right, by the window. Ashley is on the left. The leather seat is exactly thirty centimeters between us. It's funny how little distance you need to feel both empty and overheated at the same time.
I stared at my reflection in the dark glass. It was safer to enter it.
In the reflection is a man in a black suit, with regular features, a reserved expression on his face. Heir. Manager. Someone who knows what he's doing.
Somewhere under that mask is the man who saw her yesterday on the floor of
