Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
TOBIAS
Work has kept me occupied all week, which means I haven’t seen much of Rebecca or Isla, yet in every quiet moment, the horror of what Rebecca told me on the walk with Daisy comes rushing back.
If Marcus La Salle wasn’t already dead, I’d murder that bastard with my bare hands.
To abuse a woman is monstrous, but to threaten to harm an innocent child, and to allow that child to watch as her mother is beaten, is truly fucked up.
My lawyer is already on the custody case, although during our conversation yesterday, he said this won’t be as quick a fix as getting the charges dropped against Rebecca for gun possession.
The La Salles are making trouble, but in the end, we’ll win.
I’m willing to play by the rules for now.
If this situation doesn’t resolve itself within a couple of weeks, I’m not above playing dirty to get what I want.
Not to mention what Rebecca and Isla deserve—peace and freedom from harm.
A tap on my office door makes me look up. My assistant Bea pokes her head inside. “Doc’s here to take your stitches out.”
“Hallelujah. They’ve been driving me mad. Send him in, would you?”
“Sure. Oh, and your father just put a meeting in the diary. Wants to see you right after Doc’s gone.”
I frown. “Did he say what about?”
“Nope. It’s mandatory, though.”
“Is everyone going?”
She shakes her head. “Just you.”
Don’t like the sound of that. “Thanks, Bea.”
She backs out, and my doctor enters. It takes a few minutes to remove my stitches, and after a lecture about still taking it easy and not overdoing things, he packs up his bag and leaves.
I drop Xan a text. It’s highly unusual for Dad to call a mandatory meeting unless he has bad news. If anyone knows what that could be, it’s my eldest brother. I’d rather turn up already briefed if possible.
Xan replies with a shrug emoji. Helpful.
I drop my phone in my pocket and head down to Dad’s study. I tap on the door and enter. Dad’s behind his desk, frowning at his laptop screen, and Xan is standing by the fireplace, arms looped behind his back. I glare at him. He smirks. So, he does know what this is about. Twat.
“We have a problem, Tobias,” Dad kicks off, waving for me to sit opposite his desk.
A chill settles over my shoulders. “What problem?”
“Your club.”
“What about it?”
“The press are not leaving this alone. In fact, it’s getting worse. They’re now calling you ‘The King of Kink’.”
Xan snickers. Dad tosses him an annoyed glare, then returns his attention to me.
“I have always been happy to support this venture as a hobby, but the negative media coverage is having an adverse impact on some extremely delicate negotiations. It’s got to go.”
“What negotiations?”
“That’s not your concern.”
I glance at Xan, his face a blank mask, which means he knows what’s going on and isn’t willing to share. “I’m not selling The Lair.”
Dad’s graying eyebrows arch. “No?”
On the outside, I’m calm. On the inside, panic’s got me in a chokehold. That club is more than a hobby, as Dad put it. The Lair is the only place I can be myself. The only place where I don’t feel broken. I won’t let it go.
“The press will get bored soon and move on. We just have to ride it out.”
“Riding it out may destroy my negotiations. I’m not prepared to allow that to happen.”
I shrug. “Then, buy the papers and make them print something else.”
Dad chuckles. “Now you’re being flippant. A free press is the key to a democratic society, and it’s something I wholeheartedly believe in.”
“I am not selling my club,” I repeat. “It’s mine. I built it from scratch, and I’m proud of it. We’re always in the news over something or other. What’s so different about this?”
“I don’t mind being in the news, but nine times out of ten, it’s for something positive.
A philanthropic endeavor, a charity ball to raise money for the homeless, a takeover of a failing company saving thousands of jobs.
I can’t spin this in a good way, and the people I’m trying to do business with are getting twitchy. That’s why it has to go.”
“Does it, though?”
My gaze shoots to Xan. Is big brother going to come to my rescue?
“Expand,” Dad says, motioning with his hand for Xan to get on with it.
“We need to give the press something else to focus on. Something… meatier.”
“Meatier than a shooting at a kink club the press wasn’t previously aware was owned by my own son? I’m listening.”
“A wedding.” The weight of his stare lands on my face.
I almost choke on my saliva.
“A… A wedding?” A laugh bursts out of me. “You can’t be serious. Who am I marrying? Unless you’re talking about Saskia getting married. That’s right, isn’t it? A great, big, flashy De Vil wedding for the baby of the family will work. Give the press a good news story to feast on.”
I’m rambling because he doesn’t mean Saskia. He means me. And I can’t marry. Ever. The thought of sharing a bed with another human being… it makes me want to puke. Touching skin to skin. No.
Xan cocks his head to one side.
“It’s ridiculous,” I scoff. “The stupidest idea I’ve ever heard.”
“Is it, though?” Dad asks, his gaze flitting from me to Xan and back again.
“Dad, come on. You know how much I love a joke. This is not amusing in the slightest.”
“Family matters, Tobias. Reputation matters. Redemption through marriage is the perfect way to control the scandal, douse the flames.”
“Even if I was on board with this, which I am not, who am I supposed to marry?”
“Rebecca.” Xan says it so matter-of-factly that, this time, I do choke.
Once I’ve coughed up a lung, I stare at my brother like he’s got two fucking heads, and neither of them have a brain worth a penny.
“Rebecca. As in the wife of the MP’s son who was shot and killed at my club two fucking weeks ago? That Rebecca?”
“Yes, that Rebecca. It’s the perfect solution to your problem and hers.”
“I don’t have a problem, and I’m dealing with Rebecca’s without any inclusion of rings or vows.”
“You do have a problem,” Dad says. “We all do, and Alexander has provided a solution. Think about it, son. Marry Rebecca, and the La Salles’ custody claim falls apart in an instant.
There isn’t a court in the land who would remove a child from a woman with De Vil as her surname.
It closes the scandal with something positive and gives the press a happy story to focus on. ”
“Sure. Happy. A woman widowed two weeks ago marries a De Vil, and that’s not scandal?”
“It all depends how you frame it,” Xan says.
“And how do you plan to frame this?”
Xan slides his hands into his trouser pockets. “Abused wife finds comfort and support in the arms of the man her husband almost shot and killed.” He hitches a shoulder. “I’m sure our PR department can come up with something better but along those lines.”
“The La Salles will fight the abuse angle. It’s clear they think their son was some kind of saint.” Either that or they knew what a raping piece of shit he was and didn’t care.
“You leave the La Salles to me,” Dad says.
I walk out of Dad’s office with a promise to think about it, even if it is the craziest idea Xan has had in a while. I need air, space, and time to mull over this properly. If I don’t do this, I lose my club. And if I do?
What the hell am I even thinking? There are two people involved in this harebrained scheme, and there isn’t a chance in hell that Rebecca will agree to marry me.
I change into riding gear and head down to the stables. One of the grooms saddles up a horse, and I take off over the hills at a gallop. The wind steals my breath, and my fingers and toes are numb, yet I keep going, keep pushing. The speed helps me think.
By the time I reach the far side of the estate, the shock of Xan’s wild suggestion has receded a little. I dismount, leading my horse over to a watering trough to let him drink.
Maybe Dad and Xan are right and marrying Rebecca—if she’ll agree, which is far from certain—is a good idea.
My guess is she’ll think we’re mad, and honestly, she has a point.
But this could be good for her as well as me.
She already said she could never let another man touch her, which plays right into my needs.
I’ve always known my time to marry will come, although I figured I had a few years left to work out a plan to avoid it.
The more I think about it, the more excitement unfurls in my abdomen.
You know, this could work. Divert press attention onto a positive story which allows me to keep my club.
Marry a woman whose company I enjoy immensely, with a daughter I idolize, and an aversion to touch as deeply ingrained as my own.
For bonus points, she gets to stick it to the La Salles, too. A family who stood by and watched as their son beat, tortured, and raped his wife, and terrified his daughter so much she hasn’t uttered a single word in more than a year.
All I need to do now is approach the idea in the right way with Rebecca and hope she doesn’t run for the hills.