10. Clive
Clive
I find myself raking my knuckles against my palm as I stare after Jack, who's finally noticed Becca's absence and is storming toward the house with all the grace of a spoiled child denied his dessert. The dinner on the beach—meant to be some grand romantic gesture—sits abandoned, candles guttering in the ocean breeze. It took him almost thirty minutes to realize she wasn't coming back.
"Becca!" Jack's voice echoes through the villa, sharp and demanding. "This isn't funny anymore! Where are you?"
I step out from the shadow of the terrace, placing myself between him and the staircase that leads to where I suspect Becca has retreated. "She doesn't want to see you right now, Jack."
His eyes narrow, pupils dilated from the expensive scotch he's been downing all evening. "Get out of my way, Clive. This is between me and my girlfriend."
"The girlfriend you want to support you? The one you humiliated by bringing here?" My voice is steady, controlled—the same tone I use in boardrooms when I'm about to destroy someone's career.
Kay appears behind him, her blue eyes wide with theatrical concern. "What's going on? Where's Rebecca?"
"Upstairs," I say. "And she's staying there until you both leave in the morning."
Jack laughs, an ugly sound. "You can't kick us out. This is a family trip."
"My house, my rules. And this ceased being a family when the divorce papers were signed." I turn to Kay. "You've gotten what you wanted out of this weekend, haven't you? The photos for your campaign, the gossip for your friends. It's over."
Kay's perfectly sculpted face hardens. "You have no right?—"
"I have every right," I cut her off.
Jack steps closer, his breath hot with alcohol. "I get it now. You want her for yourself, don't you? Pathetic old man. She's half your age."
"She deserves better than someone who can't even notice when she's in pain," I say quietly.
"You son of a bitch." Jack lunges forward, swinging wildly.
Though it's been years since I've been in an actual fight, some instincts are ingrained. I evade his punch, and before I realize it, my fist connects with Jack's face with a gratifying crunch.
He staggers backward, blood streaming from his nose, shock replacing anger in his eyes.
"You broke my nose!" he wails, hands cupping his face.
"And you broke her heart," I reply, flexing my fingers.
"You're insane," Jack spits, blood dripping between his fingers. "She doesn't even like you. You're just my mother's ex-husband."
Kay rushes to Jack's side, pulling a silk handkerchief from her pocket and pressing it to his nose. "Look what you've done! This is assault!"
I stand my ground, adrenaline coursing through me. My knuckles throb, but there's a strange satisfaction in the pain. "Call it whatever you want. You're both leaving first thing tomorrow."
"This is about your ego," Kay hisses, her carefully cultivated accent slipping as her anger rises. "You can't stand that Jack has something you want."
"What I can't stand is watching two people manipulate someone who deserves genuine love." The words come out before I can filter them, raw and honest.
Jack's eyes widen, realization dawning through his pain. "You're in love with her. That's disgusting."
"What's disgusting is how you treat her," I say, my voice dropping to a dangerous quiet. "Like she's a box to check on your list of achievements."
A sound from the staircase makes us all turn. Becca stands there, her eyes red-rimmed but her posture straight. She's changed into a pair of leggings, a tank top and a loose ponytail. Even tear-stained, she's breathtaking.
"I heard shouting," she says softly, her gaze landing on Jack's bloodied face before shifting to my bruised knuckles.
Jack immediately pushes away from his mother, stepping toward Becca with his hand outstretched. "Becca, baby, look what he did to me. He's lost his mind."
I say nothing, letting her see the truth for herself.
She descends the last few steps, keeping a careful distance from all of us. "I think we should all get some sleep. Separately."
"You're not seriously staying here?" Jack demands. "After he attacked me?"
Becca looks at me, really looks at me, perhaps for the first time. I don't know what she sees in my face, but something passes between us—an understanding, a possibility.
"I'm not going anywhere with you, Jack," she says, her voice quiet but firm. "I need space to think."
Kay makes a dismissive sound. "This is ridiculous. Becca, dear, you're upset. Let's all calm down and?—"
"No." Becca's interruption is gentle but resolute. "I've been calm for too long.”
Jack's face contorts with rage. "You're choosing him? After everything I've done for you?"
"Done for me? You’ve done nothing for me. And I'm choosing myself," Becca replies, and I see a strength in her that makes my chest ache. "For once."
I move to the side, giving her space to pass.
As she walks past me, I catch the scent of her shampoo—something floral and fresh that somehow cuts through the metallic tang of blood in the air. Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second, and I fight the urge to reach for her hand.
"This is bullshit," Jack snarls, his voice thick through his swelling nose. "Becca, we're leaving. Now."
She pauses at the threshold of the kitchen, her shoulders tensing. "No, Jack. I meant what I said."
"So that's it? Years together and you're throwing it all away because of one fight?"
Becca turns slowly, and I'm struck by the calm dignity in her expression. "This isn't about one fight. This is about all of them."
Kay steps forward, her face a carefully composed mask of maternal concern. "Becca, darling, couples argue. It's normal. Jack loves you."
"Does he?" Becca asks simply.
The question hangs in the air, unanswered. Jack's mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out. His silence speaks volumes.
I move toward the bar, keeping my movements deliberate, controlled. "Becca, there's fresh ice cream in the freezer if you want some. And the guest suite at the east wing is made up if you'd prefer more privacy."
"Thank you," she says, the simple gratitude in her voice hitting me harder than Jack's punch ever could. “I’m fine where I am now.”
Jack lunges at me again, but he’s too slow for me. I sidestep his clumsy attack, and he stumbles into the bar cart, sending glasses crashing to the floor.
"Enough!" I command, exasperated and enraged. "You're drunk, you're bleeding, and you're making a fool of yourself. Go to bed before you do something else you'll regret."
"The only thing I regret," he slurs, gripping the edge of the bar for support, "is letting my mother convince me you were worth respecting."
Kay gasps, betrayal flashing across her face. "Jack!"
"Oh, don't act surprised, Mother," he spits. "This whole trip was your idea. I told you I don’t want to marry anyone.” He turns to Becca, and the rare look of remorse on his face tells me he immediately regrets his words. “I mean not yet, Becca. Not yet.”
“No, you were right the first time. I think I’ve known it all along.” Becca whispers and the pain in her voice nearly break my heart.
Kay's face pales. "Becca, he's drunk. He has no idea what he's talking about."
"Actually," I interject, unable to stay silent, "that was probably the most honest he’s ever been."
Jack laughs bitterly. "The great Clive Bishop, always so righteous. Tell her, then. Tell Becca how you've been looking at her since the day I brought her home.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and accusatory. I feel Becca's eyes on me, questioning, curious. My jaw tightens.
"This isn't about me," I say cautiously. "This is about how you've treated someone who deserves better."
"It's always been about you!" Jack yells, pounding his palm on the bar. "You always take whatever you want.”
Becca steps in, her voice calm despite the shaking in her hands. "Stop making this about Clive. This is about us, Jack. I know about the other girls–– I’ve always known. Hopefully, one of them will let you move in and take care of you. Because it sure as hell won’t be me.”
"No. It’s not like that—" Jack starts, but I interrupt him.
"Don't," I warn. "Don't lie to her again."
Kay suddenly adopts a conciliatory tone, her social training kicking in as she realizes the situation is spiraling beyond her control. "Everyone's tired and emotional. Let's all get some rest and discuss this in the morning like adults."
"There's nothing to discuss," I say firmly. "My plane will be ready at nine. I expect you both to be on it."
"And what about Becca?" Jack demands. "Is she supposed to stay here with you? How convenient."
I look at Becca, careful to keep my expression neutral despite the hope fluttering in my chest. "Becca is welcome to stay as long as she likes. Or I can arrange for her to fly wherever she wants to go. Her choice."
"Her choice," Jack mimics. "As if you haven't been manipulating this whole situation."
Becca squares her shoulders. "The only person being manipulated here is me, by both of you," she says, looking pointedly at Jack and Kay. "I'm going to bed. Alone."
She turns and walks away, her footsteps fading up the stairs. Jack moves to follow her, but I step in his path again.
"Let her go," I say quietly.
"Or what? You'll hit me again?" His voice is a sneer, but there's fear behind it.
"No. I think you've embarrassed yourself enough for one night."
Kay tugs at Jack's arm. "Come on, darling. We'll sort this out tomorrow."
"There's nothing to sort out," I tell them both. "This charade is over."
Jack shakes off his mother's hand and leans in close to me, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "You think you've won? You think she'll ever look at an old man like you? She's with me because I'm her age, because I understand her world."
I maintain eye contact, refusing to be baited. "If you understood anything about her, you wouldn't have lost her tonight."
Jack scoffs, but there's uncertainty in his eyes now. The adrenaline is wearing off, replaced by the sobering reality of what he's lost. "This isn't over," he mutters, but the fight has gone out of him.
Kay pulls Jack away, shooting me a look of pure venom. "You haven't changed a bit, Clive. Still thinking you're better than everyone else."
"No," I say, suddenly tired. "Just better than this."
They finally retreat, Kay steering Jack toward their wing of the villa, his bloodied handkerchief leaving crimson droplets on the marble floor. When they're gone, I exhale a breath I didn't realize I was holding and slump against the bar. My hand throbs, and I flex my fingers, wincing at the stiffness already setting in.
What have I done?
Outside, the ocean continues to dance against the shore, indifferent to the drama that just unfolded. I pour myself two fingers of scotch, down it in one burning swallow, then head to the kitchen for ice. As I wrap a kitchen towel around a handful of cubes, I hear soft footsteps behind me.
"Let me help you with that."
Becca stands in the doorway, her face pale but composed. She's pulled her hair back into a messy bun, exposing the elegant line of her neck. I fight the urge to look away, suddenly self-conscious.
"It's nothing," I mutter, but she crosses the room and takes the makeshift ice pack from my hands.
"Your knuckles are already swelling." Her voice is soft as she gently presses the ice against my hand. "You shouldn't have done that."
"Probably not," I agree, trying to ignore the warmth of her fingers against mine. "But I'm not sorry."
She looks up at me, her brown eyes searching mine. "Did you mean what you said? About me deserving better?"
"Every word."
She nods slowly, still holding the ice to my hand. "No one's ever fought for me before. Literally or figuratively."
"That's a shame," I say quietly. "Because you're worth fighting for."
A smile touches her lips, then fades. "Was Jack right? About... how you look at me?"
The question hangs between us, dangerous and electric. I could lie, brush it off as Jack's drunken ramblings. The safer choice.
"Yes," I say instead, honesty winning out. "But that's not why I intervened. I would have done the same for anyone being treated the way he treats you."
She releases my hand, and I immediately miss her touch. "I should be more upset about this," she says, almost to herself. "About Jack, about tonight. But all I feel is... relief."
"Relief can be more telling than sadness sometimes."
She nods, wrapping her arms around herself. "I've known for a while that it wasn't right. I just... I wanted it to work so badly."
"Because it was expected?" I ask gently.
"Because I thought it was what I wanted. The perfect relationship to match my perfect life." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Except nothing's perfect, is it?"
"No," I agree. "Perfect is overrated anyway."
We stand in silence for a moment, the only sound is the distant crash of waves outside. The kitchen feels like a sanctuary, removed from the chaos of the evening.
"I'm not sure what to do now," Becca admits, leaning against the counter.
"You don't have to decide anything tonight," I say, carefully adjusting the ice pack. "The guest room is yours for as long as you need it."
She studies me, her expression thoughtful. "Why are you being so kind to me? And don't say it's because I'm Jack's girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend," she corrects herself, the word sounding foreign on her tongue.
I consider my answer carefully. "Because I see you, Becca. Not the polished event planner, not the girlfriend of my ex-wife's son. Just you. And what I see is someone extraordinary who deserves to be treated as such."
A blush creeps across her cheeks. "You shouldn't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because..." She hesitates. "It makes me feel things I shouldn't feel."
My pulse quickens, but I force myself to remain still. "I'm not expecting anything from you. That's not why I'm offering you a place to stay."
"I know." She sighs, running a hand through her hair. "That's what makes it worse, somehow. You're just... decent. It shouldn't be so refreshing."
I can't help but laugh at that. "I've been called many things in my life, but 'decent' might be my favorite."
Her smile is genuine this time, lighting up her eyes. "Well, punching your ex-stepson might disqualify you from complete decency."
"Fair point." I flex my hand again, wincing slightly. "Though in my defense, he swung first."
"Will you really make them leave tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"Jack won't go easily."
"Jack doesn't have a choice," I say, my voice hardening slightly. "This is my house, and I want them gone."
"And me?" she asks, her eyes meeting mine.
"You," I say carefully, "can do whatever feels right for you. If you want to leave with them, I'll understand. If you want to stay, the villa is yours for as long as you need. If you want to go somewhere else entirely, I'll arrange it."
She absorbs this, then asks, "What do you want me to do?"
The question catches me off guard. No one asks what I want anymore; they just assume I'll make it happen. "I want you to be happy," I say honestly. "Whatever that looks like."
"I don't think I know what that looks like yet," she admits.
"Then stay until you figure it out."
She takes a step closer, and I catch the faint scent of her perfume—something subtle and floral that suits her perfectly. "Is that what you want? For me to stay?"
I should lie. I should maintain professional distance. I should remember she's young and vulnerable and just ending a relationship. Instead, I say, "Yes. But what I want doesn't matter right now."
"It matters to me," she says quietly.
Our eyes lock, and something shifts between us, a current of possibility neither of us is ready to name. She reaches out and briefly touches my injured hand, a gentle, fleeting contact.
"Goodnight, Clive," she says, stepping back. "Thank you... for everything."
"Goodnight, Becca."
I watch her leave, her slender form disappearing up the staircase. When I'm alone again, I let out a long breath and press the ice more firmly against my knuckles, welcoming the sharp cold that numbs the ache.
Tomorrow, Jack and Kay will leave. Tomorrow, Becca will wake up in a new reality. And I'll be there, trying not to hope for something I have no right to expect.