All I Want for Christmas

Chapter Nineteen

Darcy stood by the window, watching tourists and lovers walk past in the street below as she watered Miss Petals. The snow was coming in fits and starts, not so heavily that it settled on the roads, but roofs and park benches, statues and bobble hats were frosted white. Her day had passed quietly and dusk was now deepening, lights beginning to flick on in the neighbouring buildings.

Music played quietly around her, and her fresh pedicure winked as if fishing for compliments as she padded around the empty apartment in clean sweats. With Freja away in Amsterdam with Tristan, she had the place to herself, guaranteed. It was a rare luxury – her first time, in fact, being here alone all weekend – and she had decided to make the most of it after working through last weekend and all the early starts and late nights which had preceded and followed it. She had slept late this morning, skipped the weekend torture run for a Pilates Reformer class instead and, after treating herself to the pedicure on the way home, she had done a meditation and finished up with an ‘everything’ shower which had taken almost two hours from start to finish: hair mask, face mask, body scrub, a fresh shave with new razors...No inch of her body had been neglected and afterwards, she had applied fake tan and blow-dried her hair with Freja’s new Airwrap. She was primped and pampered, buffed, polished and glowing, and an evening on the sofa beckoned, with nothing more taxing to consider than which series to binge.

She was pulling a sea bass fillet from the fridge when her phone rang.

Darcy stared at it in surprise. It never rang. Even her parents never called – they WhatsApped. She wasn’t even sure that was her ringtone. But it continued to ring, insistent and demanding.

‘...Hello?’ she asked, bewildered.

‘Darcy? Thank heavens you picked up. Where are you?’

She frowned. ‘Otto?’

‘Yes. Where are you?’

‘...I’m at my apartment—’

‘So then you’re in the city?’

She frowned deeper, hearing the stress in his voice. ‘Otto, is everything all right?’

‘Not really, no. Tell me, have you got plans for tonight? And if it’s a yes, can they be changed?’

‘I...’ She didn’t know how to answer that until she knew what she was signing up to. It was unlike him to sound so harassed. ‘Otto, what’s wrong? What’s happened?’

She heard him take a breath. ‘I apologize for calling with such little notice, but we’re a man down for the royal gala fundraiser tonight at the Hotel D’Angleterre. Can you step in?’

‘Royal gala?’

‘Yes – the King and Queen are going to be there. It’s an important charity fundraiser for the new children’s hospital at Rigshospitalet and Margit always takes a table. It’s black tie, obviously: auction, dinner, drinks, dancing...Surprisingly fun once the formalities are out of the way. My wife was supposed to come, but she’s just had a fall—’

‘Oh God, is she all right?’

‘She’s fine. Just a twisted ankle, but she can’t put any weight on it and I can’t get crutches now till tomorrow. We really can’t have an empty seat at the table. Each table costs fifteen thousand euros. So Margit suggested you.’

‘She did?’

‘Of course. She’s been pleased with your progress this week. She thought you might appreciate the exposure. But if you’ve already got plans...’

‘Uh...’ Darcy hesitated. This was not how she’d seen her evening unfolding. Having dinner with Danish royalty hadn’t figured in her line-up. Then again—

She caught sight of herself in the mirror. She was, by some stroke of luck, show ready. And it would be a perfect opportunity to wear again the black velvet dress from the other week. Do it for the plot! she could hear Freja cheering her in her head.

Otto seemed to take encouragement from the lack of an outright no. ‘I could send a car to pick you up. It would be with you in half an hour.’ She could hear the desperation in his voice.

‘Okay, Otto,’ she said, shaking her head at herself even as she agreed to go. ‘I’ll be ready in time.’

‘Great! That’s great news!...I’ll wait for you in the lobby. Security is tight, as you’d imagine and there’s no time now to change names on the guestlist. You’ll have to moonlight as Mrs Borup until we get past them.’

‘No worries. I’ll see you in a bit.’

‘Oh!’ Darcy said as the footman held the hotel door open for her and she had a first glimpse of the spectacle hidden within. Outside, the city lay grey and starkly urban, but here the lobby had been transformed into a winter wonderland, with a white carpet laid across the floor and fake snow piled into drifts. There were groupings of bent-willow reindeer figures – some standing, some kneeling – arranged in small herds through the space, and potted fir trees had been grouped into stands and sprayed with instant snow. She half expected squirrels to leap from the branches and birds to fly overhead. In fact, it felt just like stepping into her carousel – the one she had left wrapped in its tissue paper since getting home. She refused to take it out, as if to enjoy it would be to somehow forgive Max for what he’d done, and she didn’t forgive him. She wouldn’t.

She saw her advisor standing by the staircase, texting, and she walked over, aware of the whirr and click of a photographer somewhere recording her progress. ‘Hi, Otto.’

He looked up, his eyebrows shooting up a moment afterwards as he took in the sight of her – so very different to her workaday student look. Her hair was pulled into a sleek bun, her make-up minimal with a red lip. ‘You pulled this together in half an hour?’

‘Let’s just say we were all lucky with the turn of events today.’

‘Red is clearly your colour.’

‘Thanks.’ She kicked nervously at the hem by her feet, feeling sick at what she was doing. The red dress was a narrow column, with the slightly draped neckline Freja had described and one twisted strap falling off her right shoulder. It was simple and yet by far the most incredible item of clothing Darcy had ever pulled on, and she couldn’t imagine what it had cost. Five thousand? Ten? She had only tried it on out of sheer desperation when she had realized Freja had taken the shared black velvet dress to Amsterdam. There hadn’t been anything else, at all, in either of their wardrobes that would stand up to a black-tie royal gala dress code.

Darcy had tried calling Freja but it kept going to voicemail; her friend was apparently ‘otherwise engaged’, and with just minutes to go before the car arrived, she had been obliged to make a decision. She didn’t like doing it without her friend’s permission, but either she wore this dress or she’d have to call Otto back and cancel on him. Not quite Sophie’s Choice but a sticky wicket, as her father would say, nonetheless. She had carefully slid the sales tag down inside the dress and on the taxi ride over, she had lain out as straight as she could to avoid creases. She intended to move with all the care of a porcelain doll tonight and with a little luck, Freja would never even know she’d worn it.

‘Well, you look very beautiful,’ Otto said gallantly as he offered her his arm and together they headed towards the Palm Court doors. Black-suited security officers wearing headsets were standing at their posts, looking into the crowd with watchful, openly suspicious expressions. Between them stood a couple of women in long, plain black dresses, holding tablets.

‘Mr and Mrs Otto Borup,’ Otto said, squeezing Darcy’s hand against his arm briefly, as if in apology for the little white lie.

Their names were found and they were waved through almost immediately, Darcy vaguely aware of heads turning as they walked in. Otto relaxed his grip on her and she felt like he was a father escorting his daughter to her prom. He was chatting lightly to her about some of the people she could expect to see here tonight. No mention was made of their woes with the Madsen Foundation earlier in the week.

A waiter stopped before them with a tray of champagne glasses, and he let go of her arm completely as they took one each and moved deeper into the crowd.

Darcy looked around, trying to absorb the visual feast that had been carried through into this space: a jumbled confection of brightly coloured satin, velvet and silk gowns were reflected tenfold in a mirrored room. Extravagant sprays of silver birch branches stood splayed in giant urns before each mirror, twisted with delicate white fairy lights. It was like walking into Narnia, an enchanted winter garden.

People milled about as if they were on wheels, feet hidden below long skirts, jewels twinkling. Round tables were dressed in white linen with profuse floral displays perched on tall, fluted pedestals. Candles threw out a warm, flickering light, mellifluous music from a string quartet undercutting the languid buzz of conversation and snappy laughter.

Security personnel stood to attention along the perimeter, watching the guests closely as they drank and made merry. Darcy sipped her champagne nervously as she recognized plenty of faces of people she didn’t know. People from other worlds: politics, show business, high finance, as well as the elite art world. Many of those who’d been at the museum drinks reception were here. She saw the Sallings deep in conversation with the Minister for the Interior and Health.

‘Otto, so lovely to see you.’

Darcy looked back – and down – to see Helle Foss standing before them with a man she took to be her husband.

She immediately stiffened. It hadn’t yet crossed her mind that she might be here.

‘Helle, Mikkel, how are you?’ Otto replied. ‘Mikkel, I don’t think you’ve had the pleasure yet – Darcy Cotterell? She’s over with us from the Courtauld for a year.’

‘A pleasure,’ Mikkel nodded, shaking her hand lightly. Helle and Darcy nodded at one another in cool greeting.

‘But where’s dear Martine?’ Helle asked in bafflement, as if she hadn’t been issuing threats of court cases and drawing up enemy lines during their last meeting.

‘Incapacitated, I’m sorry to say,’ Otto said. ‘Tripped over the dog earlier and sustained a nasty sprain.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Yes. She’ll be fine in a few days, but we felt sitting with her foot elevated in the presence of the royals would be suboptimal.’

Helle cracked an amused smile. ‘Indeed. And that’s why we have the pleasure of Ms Cotterell’s presence, is it?’ She was like an aged black cat, wizened but still well able to deliver a sharp sabre-swipe of her claws. She smiled as she slowly looked Darcy up and down. ‘What a beautiful gown. Is academia paying better than I recall, Otto?’

It struck Darcy as a crass thing to say. Otto must have thought so too, for he merely smiled in reply.

Helle frowned, catching sight of something over Darcy’s shoulder. ‘Oh dear, he doesn’t look happy,’ she sighed. ‘What’s happened now?’

‘Who?’ Otto turned.

Darcy followed suit to find Max moving through the crowd, almost upon them. His gaze was wholly trained upon her and she automatically straightened, caught off guard by seeing him here. He was dressed in the dinner suit he’d been wearing the night they’d met and he looked so handsome, she caught her breath. If she’d had any idea he was going to be here tonight, would she have come?

Of course not.

He looked angry, and she braced as he wove his way towards them, bridging the gap until finally he was right there.

‘Max—’ Otto began in a pleasant tone.

‘What is she doing here, Otto?’ he asked bluntly. ‘Her name isn’t on the list.’

Darcy swallowed, feeling pushed back by his abrupt words. No hello, obviously.

‘I asked her,’ Otto replied. ‘Martine has a sprained ankle and cannot stand. Darcy kindly obliged by stepping in at very short notice.’

Max swallowed, as if recovering himself a little. ‘I’m sorry to hear that; I hope she recovers quickly—’

‘Thank you.’

‘...But obviously there are security protocols in place with the guest list tonight, and as the chair of the event—’

‘I’m aware that this puts you in a difficult position, but there wasn’t any time to inform you beforehand. I thought it better, under the circumstances, that we have a full table than a glaring omission. And as Darcy is a member of the team who is currently working closely with the Madsen Foundation, I felt certain you would be comfortable with the last-minute switch.’

Darcy bristled, hating that her presence here somehow rested on Max’s say-so. If she’d had any idea – ‘I can just go, Otto,’ she said quietly, lowering her chin. ‘I don’t need to be here.’

‘Yes, you do,’ Otto said quickly. ‘It would be a breach of etiquette to have unfilled tables in front of the King and Queen. And besides, it isn’t an issue. If Max trusts you enough to give you unrestricted access to his own home, why should you taking a seat at a table here be cause for concern?’

He was talking to her, but they all knew the question was directed at Max. It was patently clear that Darcy posed no threat to the guests of honour. He just didn’t want her there, his objections personal and not professional.

She remembered their sharp exchange at the gallery yesterday morning. He had no right to be angry with her – wasn’t that the very accusation he’d thrown at her on his steps? – and yet from the way he was looking at her now, it clearly had riled him. She stared back, seeing that any attempt at a fragile amity had completely fallen away; he no longer cared if she hated him. Their efforts to be ‘professional’ had failed and there was only hostility left.

To her surprise, she wasn’t sorry. That felt more solid to hold onto, somehow. Pretending they could be anything otherwise had been an exhausting charade.

‘We’re here tonight to raise money for the Children’s Hospital – and apparently to enjoy ourselves,’ Otto said, his gaze flitting questioningly between the two of them as their stare-off persisted. ‘So why don’t we do that?’

‘Here you are,’ a voice purred, and Max was accosted by a woman who was neither Angelina nor Natalia coming to stand by his shoulder. She had deeply tanned skin, as if she was straight off Ipanema Beach, and was wearing a gold silk dress so tight and skimpy, Darcy could see she had a belly button piercing. She was stunning – and vaguely familiar. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you.’

Max’s jaw pulsed with irritation. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered, not looking sorry in the least as he inclined his head back fractionally towards her, his eyes still never leaving Darcy. It was like standing in his kitchen last Sunday night all over again, but this time, she refused to look away. Another night, another woman? He was pathetic. He had been a bully in Margit’s office the other day. He had ridden roughshod over her moment of celebration. Nothing and no one mattered to him. Over and over again, he had told her what he was; he had showed her – but only now did she believe him. She wouldn’t hide her contempt.

The woman’s hand grazed up his arm, stroking it. ‘...They told me to tell you they’re ready,’ she said in an almost intimate voice. ‘They want everyone to take their seats.’

‘Right.’ But he still didn’t move.

The woman frowned and followed his stare, her gaze dragging down over Darcy’s gown as she recognized it for the designer trophy it was. ‘Great dress,’ she said, without warmth.

‘Thank you...Yours is beautiful too. You look just like a model,’ Darcy replied, flatly.

‘I am.’ The woman’s beautiful hazel eyes narrowed slightly.

‘Really?’ Darcy breathed, sarcasm dripping from the word. She deliberately didn’t look at Max, though she felt the flare of anger from him. He knew precisely the point she was making.

Otto reached for her arm. ‘Come. If there are no further objections, we’ll take our seats,’ he said stiffly. ‘We all know how tightly this needs to run to schedule tonight...Good luck, Max.’

He quickly led her away, back into the safety of the crowd.

‘ What is going on between the two of you?’ he asked, his voice so low it was almost a growl.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Darcy realized her heart was pounding from the encounter but it had felt so good to finally challenge Max. She had shown him she wasn’t a pawn to be used in his game.

‘The two of you were at each other’s throats. You looked like you loathe each other.’

She swallowed, turning away slightly. ‘I suppose we do...’

‘But why? Has something happened between you?’

Darcy gave a small laugh of astonishment. ‘Are you honestly asking me that, after what he and that poisonous woman did in the meeting the other day?’

Otto sighed. ‘It’s a highly disagreeable way to do business, I agree, but it isn’t personal, Darcy. They have an objective and they’ll try to achieve it by whatever means they can. It doesn’t mean they’ll win. Personally, I try not to be drawn into their games.’

It was a clear rebuke. She had bared her teeth just now, but was this really the time or the place?

They had reached their table and, without missing a beat, Otto introduced her to Margit’s husband, a mild-mannered-looking man who looked like he’d rather be playing golf. Right now, so would she. Realizing her champagne had sat untouched in her glass all this time, she downed it quickly before taking her seat.

Everyone fell into making small talk as they awaited the royal entrance, and Darcy tried to put Max Lorensen out of her mind. The wine glasses were filled and she sat, sipping quickly, as she listened to the conversation bouncing around the table, not caring for a word of it.

A trumpeter’s call brought silence to the room several minutes later and everyone was asked to ‘please rise’ as the national anthem was played. The royal couple walked in, accompanied by a man and a woman Darcy guessed to be senior executives of the Children’s Hospital. In spite of her agitation, Darcy felt a small thrill at all the pomp; she had never been in the presence of royalty before. She watched as their Majesties took their places at the table in the centre front of the room, her excitement immediately abating as she realized Max and Helle were sitting at the top table too.

Of course they were.

She reached for her wine and took another gulp.

Otto, sitting to her left, leaned towards her. ‘Are you okay?’ he murmured.

Was she drinking too much – too fast – she wondered?

‘Why are they sitting up there?’ she whispered back.

Otto followed her eyeline. ‘...The Madsen Foundation is the main sponsor for tonight.’

‘Why? What does a fertilizer company have to do with building a kid’s hospital?’ she hissed.

‘Madsen Holdings isn’t just a biochemical corporation, Darcy; they branched into the biomedical space years ago,’ he whispered. ‘This is one of the Foundation’s marquee events—’

‘They’re white-washing their reputation you mean,’ she hissed back, prompting a stern look, just as the hospital chairman rose and began giving a speech. He talked at length about how the $350 million project was only possible through the generosity of their sponsors and everyone gathered here tonight.

Darcy looked away, refusing to believe Max and Helle could ever be painted as ‘good guys’. She tuned in and out as she glanced around the room, taking in the famous faces, the beautiful dresses, anything to divert her attention from the one person lodged in her mind...But it was impossible when his date was sitting a few tables away, swinging a shapely crossed leg impatiently. Darcy tried not to think about Max taking her back to his house later on and slipping that scrap of gold dress off her –

‘...round of applause for our Chair this evening, Mr Max Lorensen of the Madsen Foundation.’

She watched him stand to a loud round of applause. Otto glanced back at her, an eyebrow lifting as he saw that she wasn’t joining in, but Darcy didn’t care if it was rude. Max had had no qualms in being rude to her earlier when he was threatening to throw her out of here.

His voice came through the microphone, filling the room, and she closed her eyes, hating the sound. He didn’t have any cue cards, but he talked eloquently and calmly to the dignitaries in the room nonetheless, thanking them for their continued support, particularly in the fight against Kaposi sarcoma, the rare and aggressive cancer that had...

Oh God.

...That had claimed the life of his brother, Peder.

Darcy watched in dismay as a film began playing on a screen, images showing the transformation of a freckled young boy – playing in the surf with his brother, competing in an athletics meet, cuddling with his dog – to a gaunt and hollow young man lying on a hospital bed with tubes coming out of his arms and throat.

Darcy looked over at Max in horror, seeing how he had his face turned towards the screen, as if he were watching too, but from this angle she could see his eyes were averted to a spot beyond it. He couldn’t look. Was this why he hadn’t wanted her here? He didn’t want her to be privy to anything less than perfect in his life? The photographs were replaced with mathematical graphics – bar charts, pie charts, graphs, all showing statistics and percentages, a worrying rise in the rates of the disease. They couldn’t stop here. They needed more funding for further research. No one else should suffer the way his brother had suffered.

She saw the way he moved as he talked, skating over the pain as if it was buried beneath ice, the emotion taken out of his voice as if he had never known that little boy or young man himself. She saw the upward tilt of his chin, the distant remove of his gaze; she saw what she had taken for arrogance the first time she had laid eyes on his profile. He was beautiful, but now he was also bulletproof.

The images were switched off and he looked back to the room, throwing the guests a dazzling smile that was at odds with his frozen demeanour of a few minutes earlier, telling them to bid ‘with furious abandon’ in the silent auction. The lots would close in an hour; tablets for bidding were to be found on each table.

Nils, the man sitting to her right – a Friend of the National Gallery – was already flicking through, and she glanced over to see the prizes: a fully staffed villa for eight people on Harbour Island for ten days...a week’s unlimited use of a helicopter...a private tour of Bill Koch’s wine cellar...a holiday on Necker...a recording session with Coldplay’s producer...dinner with former Victoria’s Secret model Veronique Huillier...

Veronique Huillier? Darcy looked over at Max’s date. She had thought the woman looked familiar.

Another wave of applause jolted her attention back onto him and she looked up in time to see him take his seat again. He immediately turned his attention to the woman on his left – a companion in her sixties, bedecked in emeralds – and his expression settled into that charming but impenetrable demeanour Darcy had become accustomed to seeing in recent weeks.

She watched him, feeling conflicted by what she’d learned here tonight. She didn’t want to understand why he was the way he was; she didn’t want to feel sad for him that he’d lost his brother. (She also didn’t want to remember what she’d said to him at the Christmas market: You’re lucky you don’t have one . She could remember the silence that had followed.)

Neither would he want her pity, she knew that much. But she also couldn’t pretend it didn’t account for certain things.

‘Good speech, as ever,’ Otto said begrudgingly, reaching for a bread roll. ‘Whatever your opinions on him, no one can deny he’s a pro.’

‘Otto, you never said his brother died,’ she said in a low voice.

He seemed surprised by the accusation. ‘Why would I?’

What could she say? That it explained so many things about him? ‘When did it happen, do you know?’

‘Nine or ten years ago now.’

‘It’s so terrible.’

‘Yes. I believe they were very close.’

Darcy swallowed, trying not to think about Max’s pain. She adored her own brother. She couldn’t imagine losing him. ‘It’s amazing that he’s doing this in his memory.’

Otto nodded. ‘Grief affects everyone differently, of course, but Max appears to have decided on action. He set up a research grant in his brother’s memory and, through the Foundation, he uses events like this to raise millions for the hospital every year...I’m not saying the guy’s not a bastard in the boardroom, but something like this makes it difficult to dislike him completely. Sometimes I even pity him, ridiculous though that may sound for a man seemingly with every gift and privilege at his disposal.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, he has nothing else but this. It’s what makes him so good at his job. His career is his life now.’

‘But what about the rest of his family?’

Otto shook his head. ‘Helle told me once – during one of her milder moments – that his parents died in a car accident when the boys were young. Max and Peder were raised by an aunt – they have a fair few cousins – but she sent them off to boarding school.’ He looked directly at Darcy. ‘You can see why he’s a very private man these days.’

Nils, on her other side, leaned towards them as he pointed to the tablet. ‘I need your opinions,’ he interrupted, unapologetically. ‘What do you think, for my teenage son? It’s his seventeenth birthday coming up. The session with the Coldplay producer? Or dinner with a Victoria’s Secret model?’

‘That’s easy – dinner with an Angel has to be every boy’s dream, surely?’ Darcy replied after a beat when Otto offered no opinion.

‘Man and boy’s dream,’ Nils chuckled, placing a bid as he talked. ‘I wonder if I could tag along too?’

She smiled back, even though she knew exactly who would be living out that particular dream tonight.

She settled in with a polite look of interest as Nils and Otto began debating the merits of the wine being served, but she felt the weight of a stare settle upon her and looked up to find Max watching her from across the room.

Her instincts quivered from his scrutiny, having somehow known it would be him.

The body knows . It always knows.

People were dancing. The silent auction had closed and the royal couple had left suitably soon after dinner ended. The business of the gala had concluded and this was the fun part of the night, where the good wine and good food took effect. The mood had quickly stepped up as royalty exited and manners were relaxed. A band was playing and the dance floor was full, with Veronique putting on a show by shimmying her hips and tossing her hair around like a wildcat.

Darcy had fallen into conversation with a man who had been on the table behind theirs. He’d rather boldly tapped her on the shoulder as soon as they were ‘released’ from dinner – Nils had gone off to see whether his bid had won – and now she was slightly trapped. The man was a television producer, in his mid-forties, and as an attempt to keep her with him, he was trying to formulate a pitch on the fly for a series around the Old Masters. ‘It’s about making it...relevant and...and alive,’ he kept insisting, very much the worse for wear. ‘And who better than someone who looks like you ?’

‘It’s not really about what I look like, though, is it,’ she said. ‘It’s about reaching an audience who thinks fine art is only for the rich and showing them that there can be—’

She didn’t get to finish her point. Someone behind her companion went to move past him and he startled, far too focused on her and nothing else in the room. Darcy watched as half a glass of merlot leapt from his crystal glass, flying through the air in a slow-motion arc, before landing in a long splatter down the front of her dress.

There was a horrified moment of silence as even the drunk man recognized the calamity of what he’d done.

‘Oh—’ he began as Darcy instinctively stepped back, her arms held out as she looked down at the ruined gown. She froze, unable even to breathe. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said as she backed away. What had she done? What had she done? ‘Let me—’

He reached for the water jug on the table, but she had already turned and was pushing through the crowd. People parted for her, reading her panic, some of them seeing the source of her distress, others looking on in bewilderment as she clamoured to get out of the room.

She felt herself released from the throng and ran down the hallway, looking for the restrooms.

‘Oh, my dear!’ an older lady in pearls said as she passed, understanding immediately. ‘Down there, on the right.’ She pointed the way and Darcy burst in to the ladies’ room, having to weave her way around a gaggle of women who were heading out.

‘Oh no! Her beautiful dress!’ she heard one of them say behind her.

‘It’s ruined!’

The doors closed behind them and, seeing that all the cubicle doors were open, Darcy realized she was alone. She stood back and stared in horror at her reflection in the mirror, seeing the full extent of the damage now. It was even worse than she had thought. Besides the heavy stain over the torso, splashes had dripped all the way down the skirt too. She looked like she’d been stabbed. Like she was bleeding.

Salt, white wine – they were the remedies for removing red wine stains, she knew, but this stain was too large and irregular, the fabric too delicate. Even specialist dry cleaning wasn’t going to come back with a spotless result, and on a five-thousand-euro dress like this, there was no room for flaws.

Oh God. What had she done, coming here tonight in someone else’s treasure? There was no way she could afford to replace it.

Her hands reached for the counter, her head dropping as she felt the full disaster of the situation descend upon her. Tears began to gather, her breath to roll...This dress was supposed to have been for Freja’s big moment, when she stood by Tristan’s side and they announced their official togetherness – and now Darcy had taken that from her!

‘Oh God,’ she moaned, feeling her heart racing. Too fast. ‘Oh God.’ Her hands were beginning to tingle. What was she going to do? ‘Oh...no...’ She felt the first tears gather and fall, and she straightened up, her face tipped to the ceiling as she strained for self-control.

But the tears continued to slide. There was no way to stop what was coming, to undo what had already been done. Freja would never forgive her!

She began to pace in a tight figure of eight, her hands twisted in her hair as she walked in continuous loops; no way out.

The bathroom door opened as she had her back turned and she halted in her tracks, waiting for the sound of footsteps into the cubicle. But they didn’t come. A sharp sob, escaping her efforts, made her shoulders judder as she waited.

‘Darcy...’

What?

She spun round at the unexpectedness of her name, the deep timbre of the voice, in here.

‘...No. Not you.’ She shook her head as Max stared back at her, taking in the full scope of the stains across the dress, her smudged mascara as tears skimmed her cheeks. Of all the people she didn’t want to see...‘Go away,’ she said roughly. ‘You shouldn’t be in here.’

He looked pained. ‘I saw what happened—’

‘I don’t care. Get out!’

‘I want to help.’

‘I don’t want your help!’ she cried. ‘You’re the last person I want to help me!...Just go!’

He watched as her tears became sobs and she hid her face in her hands, trying to hide from him. ‘It’s just a dress. We can sor—’

‘You don’t get it!’ she cried. ‘It’s not just a dress! It’s my friend’s dress! Her beautiful new dress that she bought for something special. Only she’s away, and I was trying to help Otto! I was trying to do someone a favour and I had no other options. I thought it wouldn’t matter, that she’d never even know!’ She looked down at herself, her face falling all over again at the sight of it, sobs beginning to roll through her like a stormy wind.

Oh God. How was she going to tell Freja what she had done? How could she ever make it up to her?

She knew she had to get out of here, but she couldn’t...she couldn’t slow down her breathing. Another sob escaped her, unstoppable, and she realized her breath was coming too fast, too shallow and the sound was...strangled. He rushed over as she sank forward, her hands reaching for the counter again as she stared down between her locked arms.

She felt his hand on her back then, pulling her back. Protective. Territorial. Safe.

‘Darcy, you’re panicking,’ he said quietly. ‘You need to breathe more slowly, okay? Try to control your breathing.’

She heard his words, she knew he was talking sense, but her body wouldn’t obey. It was like a runaway train, steaming down oiled tracks.

He took her hands off the counter and turned her towards him, pulling her into his arms. ‘Sshh,’ he murmured, taking her wrists and holding them both in one hand so that she was pinned to him, her head against his chest. Instinctively her eyes closed. She could feel his heart; it was pounding too, but slower than hers, and the rhythmic beat soothed her somehow. A pulse she could follow.

She was grateful for the help, but why did it have to be his? Why was the ground constantly shifting between them: lover, villain, hero?

He was doing something with his other hand, but she didn’t know what until she heard the bass of his voice against her ear.

‘Christoff, bring the car round.’

She felt him slide his phone back into his pocket and then his other hand went to her head as he began stroking her hair softly. ‘It’s going to be okay, Darcy. We’ll get it sorted. Just breathe slowly for me. Breathe slowly.’

Her breathing began to fall into rhythm with his hand on her hair, a conductor’s baton controlling her speed, slowing her down. Her body responding to his.

She didn’t know how long they stood like that for; the door seemed to open and close several times, but no one else came in, though she could hear the murmur of voices out in the hall.

Eventually, when he felt she had calmed enough, he pulled back. ‘Good,’ he murmured, looking down at her. ‘...Did you bring a coat?’

She hesitated, unable to think clearly. Had she? She shook her head.

‘No? Not your running jacket?’ He gave a crooked smile that surprised her and she realized he was teasing her. A memory from the night they’d met. A moment of kindness. Hostilities on pause. ‘...Okay, so then we’re going to walk out of here and into the lobby. My driver’s waiting. He’ll take you home.’

She looked at him. The panic was still flushed in her blood. ‘Not you?’

He swallowed, shadows moving behind his eyes. He was close and far away, all at once. ‘...I have commitments here tonight...I have to stay.’

She recoiled, feeling exposed – like she’d shown something she shouldn’t in her moment of weakness – and she went to pull away but his grip tightened around her wrists, holding her there.

‘If things could be different...’ he whispered, before gently kissing the top of her head.

The touch was so light, so tender, she might have thought she imagined it, had she not glimpsed their reflection in the mirror. Their eyes met in the glass, holding, holding...

The door opened again, a quiet shush that announced they weren’t alone, and his hands dropped away. He turned towards the door. ‘Time to go.’

He averted his gaze as she passed by him and they walked out and down the hall in silence, past the gaggle of women she had seen coming out of the toilets earlier, past red candles on polished side tables, evergreen swags looped along the walls, waiters hurrying back and forth with trays.

‘Everyone’s staring,’ she whispered, seeing how people stopped talking mid-conversation as they passed. Max’s polished composure only seemed to heighten the contrast with her wrecked make-up and ruined dress.

‘You’re still the most beautiful woman here,’ he murmured back.

She looked over at him in surprise, but his gaze was dead ahead as they approached the snowy lobby, where his driver was already waiting for her. He was protecting her the only way he could – or knew how – and she felt his hand hover, as ever, at the small of her back.

It was a heat that promised to warm her, if only it would land.