CHAPTER 6. COMPANY
“Ah, Xavier, you’re still awake.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Who’s drunk?”
“You are.”
“Don’t frown…”
“Get up.”
“Don’t be mad, baby. Hey, where are you carrying me?”
“Oh God.”
“You smell good… What is that scent? Ah, it’s you… God, I love it.”
“Where were you?”
“At the bar. At the bar, at the bar, at the bar… Met up with Fred. You don’t know him. He’s an old friend. An old friend from my past life. And where were you?”
“Here. It’s four in the morning.”
“Oh, baby, don’t be mad. Why are you mad?”
“Enough.”
“Were you worried about me, Xavy?”
“You’ll regret this in the morning.”
“Why are you frowning?… Oh, it’s soft here. Yes, I’m a bit drunk… a little tipsy. Where are you going? Wait…Xavier…”
“You need to sleep it off.”
“No. Come here, baby…”
***
First comes the pain—a dull, throbbing ache in my temples, pulsing at the back of my head.
Then, slowly, the world drifts into focus.
Shapes emerge through the haze, washed in soft blue twilight.
Light seeps through the heavy curtains, throwing faint shadows across the walls.
My vision sharpens: a bedside table, a wardrobe against the far wall, a portrait of Somerset Maugham in a simple brown frame.
I try to roll over. Pain lances through my skull, sharp enough to make me wince. My mind’s still foggy, thoughts tangled—mostly about Xavier—fragments of dreams bleeding into reality.
I turn my head, forcing my heavy eyelids open. The familiar wallpaper. The dark outline of a door. Recognition settles as I breathe out, catching a faint trace of his scent on the pillow, the sheets, the comforter—so distinctly his.
With effort, I push up onto my elbows, leaning back against the solid wooden headboard.
This is Xavier’s room.
I try to piece together how I got here, but the pounding in my skull makes it hard to think straight. Somewhere in the apartment, muffled voices drift through the quiet, too faint to make out.
I sit up, my gaze finding the thin gap between the curtains. The light outside is dim—early evening, maybe. How long have I been out?
Fragments of memory start resurfacing: the Rishetor Center, Katie Fairfax, the journalists, the blond man…and then it clicks, piece by piece.
I remember Xavier carrying me to the car, trying to wake me up. Then bringing me home, asking if he should call a doctor. Beyond that, it’s all a blur.
I shove the comforter aside, instantly regretting it when a fresh wave of pain slams through my head.
My body protests every movement, but I grit my teeth and swing my legs over the edge of the bed.
Barefoot, wearing only a T-shirt and boxers—my clothes nowhere in sight—I push myself up, cross the room, and step out into the hallway.
At the end of the corridor, light spills from the kitchen into the dark, but the room itself is empty.
“Xavier?” I call as I step inside. No answer.
I cross the kitchen and reach the living room doorway—then freeze.
For a moment, I honestly wonder if I’m still dreaming.
Monica, my sister, sits at the table with a teacup in hand. Beside her is Mrs. Waverly, our elderly neighbor. And in Xavier’s armchair by the fireplace sits Ernest Ormond, Xavier’s uncle. I’ve never seen him twice in one day before.
Having all of them in the same room feels surreal.
“Newton,” Ernest says, his gaze calm but weighing me in that familiar, quiet way of his. I’ve always hated when he uses my full name, like a teacher about to scold me.
“How are you feeling, dear?” Mrs. Waverly asks warmly, then goes right on, “Xavier told us what went on earlier. I had a feeling something like this might come up when Mr. Waverly mentioned the journalists outside today. I do hope you’re alright.”
“Uh, fine, thanks,” I mumble, clearing my throat. My eyes find my sister. “Monica? What are you doing here?”
She smiles, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “I was in the neighborhood, thought I’d finally drop by. Didn’t expect to find you knocked out on arrival.”
“Yeah,” I reply flatly, still trying to wrap my head around this unexpected gathering.
An awkward beat follows as all three of them keep watching me. I glance at each of them in turn.
“And…uh, where’s Xavier?”
“Upstairs, I think,” Mrs. Waverly says, lowering her voice a little. “Seems to be in a bit of a mood.”
“I might have something to do with that,” Ernest admits, rising from his chair. “A word, Newton?”
I clear my throat. “Mind if I put some pants on first?”
Ernest doesn’t even blink. “Your state of undress doesn’t bother me in the slightest,” he says dryly. “Shall we?”
Monica and Mrs. Waverly watch as I follow him into the kitchen.
“What’s going on?” I ask the second we’re alone, skipping the pleasantries.
Ernest doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he picks up a jar of canned peaches from the counter, turning it over in his hands like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the room. He looks completely at ease, like I’m the one who dragged him in here for a talk.
After a slow glance around the kitchen, he brushes a speck of dust off his gray checkered sleeve and clears his throat.
“Since my nephew refuses to speak with me, I’ll ask you instead, Mr. Doherty: drop the Rishetor case.”
“Drop it?” My grip tightens on the back of the chair. “How do you even know about that case?”
“You know business isn’t my only interest,” Ernest says evenly. “I have eyes in many places.”
“Yeah, I know you have ties to all the rich and powerful,” I say, letting the sarcasm slip.
Xavier mentioned it over that first dinner we had—the one that almost felt like a date.
Back then, I thought he was trying to impress me.
Now I know it’s the last thing he wants to be associated with.
“Is Mr. Rishetor your friend or something?”
Ernest smiles, but there’s no humor behind it. “Of course not.”
He’s handsome, elegant—Xavier takes after him—but without the easy charm Xavier carries so effortlessly. His eyes, though, have that same distance, like whatever he’s really thinking is locked behind a vault door.
“I know exactly what Rishetor’s capable of,” Ernest says evenly. “He’s not a man you want as an enemy. Trust me.”
I match his smile. “I see.”
“Stay out of it, please. You’ve got enough on your plate as it is. And ask Xavier to do the same.”
I scoff. “You know that’s pointless. Telling him not to do something only makes him dig in harder.”
“I know. But he’s more likely to listen to you than to me.”
I smirk. “I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Well, it’s hard not to notice how…attached he is to you.”
I don’t respond, but my pulse spikes. The thought of Ernest seeing me as someone Xavier might care about does things to my ego I’d rather not admit.
“I can’t do anything about the Rishetor case,” I say, not bothering to sound apologetic. “Was that what you wanted to tell me this afternoon?”
“Ah, no.” Ernest studies me for a long moment, like he’s deciding how much to reveal. For a second, I almost think he’s embarrassed—but Ernest Ormond doesn’t do embarrassed.
“I’m listening.”
He doesn’t answer right away, just flicks a glance toward the living room, checking whether Mrs. Waverly or my sister might be listening in.
When he finally speaks, his tone is deliberately casual. “As you’ve probably noticed, Newton, my nephew doesn’t trust many people.” He pauses. “In fact, I can’t think of anyone he does…except you.”
There’s an edge under his words, almost accusatory. He waits, expecting a reaction, but I give him nothing. When I stay silent, he goes on.
“Xavier may seem arrogant, aloof, overly sure of himself, but underneath that, he’s—” Ernest hesitates, exhaling like he hates admitting it. “Fragile. He gets attached to people. Sometimes too attached for his own good.”
His gaze sharpens, studying me, like he’s testing whether I already know exactly what he’s implying.
“And?” I ask, tension curling in my chest.
“Don’t toy with him.” His voice hardens. “There are plenty of attractive women out there, Newton. Pick one and settle down.”
A sharp laugh escapes me, my pulse spiking. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Ernest’s gaze doesn’t waver. “I’m just saying.” He shrugs, though there’s a flicker of defensiveness in it. “Get married. Have kids. Don’t give him mixed signals.”
Mixed signals? Heat rushes up my neck, burning all the way to my ears.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” The edge in my voice slips through before I can stop it. “And no offense, but my personal life isn’t your business.”
“Yours—no.” Ernest cuts in quickly, his stare still locked on mine. “But don’t drag my nephew into tabloid scandals. The Ormond family has a reputation to uphold.”
Welp. Didn’t expect him to be the one believing headlines, considering he’s got our apartment wired like a police sting.
“Tabloid scandals?” I let out a short, bitter laugh. “You know, Ernest, I figured the rest of the world would talk, but Xavier’s own family?”
“It’s not just about the papers,” Ernest says evenly. “I can’t have him getting hurt.”
“Thanks for the concern,” I say flatly. “But right now, I think you’re the one doing the hurting.”
“Newton—”
“It’s been great seeing you,” I cut in, flashing my most acidic smile before walking out of the kitchen.
As soon as I step back into the living room, Monica looks up from her tea. “Everything okay?”
I nod.
“Well, I should be going,” Ernest announces, following me in and heading straight for the door. “Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Waverly. Miss Doherty. Mr. Doherty.”
“Ernest.”
“I’ll see you out, Mr. Ormond,” Mrs. Waverly says, rising from her chair. “I should run too—need to get dinner started before Mr. Waverly’s back from the bakery. Get well soon, Mr. Doherty.”
After the goodbyes, Mrs. Waverly leaves with Ernest, and suddenly it’s just Monica and me. Silence lingers for a moment.
“Nice place,” she says, glancing around with a small smile. Her hair’s pulled back into a ponytail, bangs falling loose across her forehead. “Cozy.”