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The door shuts in my face.

It’s 1:07 a.m.

The city below is a mess of lights and noise I can’t hear from up here, but it doesn’t matter—my mind is louder. I sink deeper into the couch, vodka bottle loose in one hand, the TV still playing something I’m not watching.

I shouldn’t be drinking.

I have a date in ten hours. Eleven a.m., to be exact.

A date with the pretty Hayley Bentworth, who I am not attracted to nor have any wish to see, but Mia is several doors down the hall and would flip if I don’t show up in good mental condition. This means, ideally, I should not have this vodka bottle in my hand. But it’s the only thing keeping me sane right now.

I’m not thinking about my date with Hayley right now. It’s the second date, the dinner, the one with Megan Hart. My mother.Thatis what’s driving me borderline insane.

Her manager, Vera Samuels, texted me two days ago to confirm the date and choose a venue. I still remember the message.

7:00 PM. Address below. Megan can’t wait to see you. —Vera Samuels

Her manager. Not even Megan herself.

Of course not. How can the Almighty Megan be bothered to text me?

I don’t know if she’s asking to see me because she knows who I am, or if I’m just another face in the Hollywood crowd. Another freaking actor she needs to work with.

God, I hate this.

I hate not knowing the outcome of something. Will she recognize me or look through me? Either way, what would I do? What should I do?

I lean my head back against the couch and stare at the ceiling, the city lights reflecting against the glass walls like ghosts. She left when I was a kid. No goodbye. No explanation. Just… gone. For years, she was the star in everyone else’s life while I tried to forget she was the black hole in mine.

Harry thinks I should tell Dad. Says he deserves to know.

Maybe he does. But I can’t do it. I saw what she did to him. Saw how long it took for him to start breathing again after she walked out of our lives. No way I’m dragging him back through that.

I’ll take it.

I’ll carry this alone if I have to.

My chest feels tight. I take another swig of vodka, wincing as it scorches down my throat. It doesn’t help. It hasn’t helped in weeks.

I think of Mia again—how she looked earlier when I told her she was staying at the penthouse. That expression of barely-contained irritation, like I’m the most exhausting man she’s ever met.

She doesn’t understand. No one does. I’m not proud of some of the things I’ve done. But I’m tired of everyone acting like I’m failing at something they don’t understand. She doesn’t know what it’s like to sit across from someone who gave you life and not be sure if she’ll even see you.

I close my eyes and try to shut it all down—Mia, Megan, Hayley, the press, the freaking weight of being Jack Calloway.

It doesn’t work.

So I drink again.

“Jack?”

I hold the drink away from my face and look up to see Mia standing in the hallway in pink pajamas, a frown on her face.

“Are you drinking?”

“No.” I set the bottle on the table and scrub a hand down my face.

Her voice is soft when she speaks again. “You seem… restless.”