Chapter 14. Alex
ALEX
If Ophelia wasn’t so worried about Clementine walking in, I’d have kept her in that hall all night.
“One down, eleven letters, first letter M,” I straighten her up to place a kiss between her shoulder blades. She smells like coffee and fireplaces and something so uniquely her. “An outstanding piece of art, our finest creation.”
“A masterpiece,” she breathes, on a laugh. The paper in front of us is damning evidence of our transgressions, littered with orange and brown handprints, smudges, claw marks from Ophelia’s delicate fingers.
It’s priceless.
I divert my eyes from it before I bend her over all over again. I turn her to face me, tucking a wayward copper wave behind her ear. Her freckles are lost in her flush, whisky-brown eyes wide and watery when she breaks the tranquil silence. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
I gather all seven drawings, treating the final one with extra care while she quietly dresses behind me. The silence isn’t awkward; it isn’t full of unspoken words and stifling tension like that day in my car. It’s contented and comfortable, like we’re right where we should be.
When I turn, Ophelia is in some sort of long, strappy sundress, green and floral and paired with thick tights and boots. The straps are thin, neckline low. I rub a hand over my mouth, trying to think of something to say that isn’t wholly inappropriate for such a sweet moment. “That’s a new dress.”
My voice sounds strained, cracking on the final word like I’m fourteen years old. She notices, of course, laughing at me like I’m an idiot. I am an idiot. “It was two pounds from the charity shop.”
She bends to tie her laces, stretching the thin cotton that covers her ass. I almost lose my mind. “It looks good. You look good.”
A little smile creeps onto her face, and she swishes it at me, doing half a twirl like she might be starting to see herself the way I see her. Her confidence is recovering, small but steady. It makes my mood buoyant. “Colette picked it out for me.”
I’m going to have to start paying that woman a commission.
She pulls her phone from her pocket and reads a text. “Eike took Colette back to the hotel.”
“Do you want me to drop you off there?” I offer, even though I’ll probably put one of these pastels in my eye if she says yes.
Lucky for my retinas, she shakes her head with a soft smile. “Shall we get dinner? I’m fifteen minutes from hangry.”
Shit. Ophelia when hangry is a force to be reckoned with. “Better go get pasta before you start punching members of the public, then.”
“It’s when the car smashing starts that you really need to worry.”
I tame my hair and smooth out my shirt, trying to retain just a modicum of discretion for Ophelia’s sake, even though there’s no universe in which Clementine didn’t hear her not-very-politely asking me to fuck her faster about five minutes ago.
But Ophelia seems convinced we can maintain our innocent facade, so when I tug open the door and find our brightly dressed host in the hallway, seemingly battling it out with my girlfriend for who can blush the hardest, I fight to keep the ridiculous grin off my face.
Tucking the drawings under my arm, I give her my most charming smile—the press conference smile—and toss a forty-pound tip on the side table in the hallway. “Fantastic event, Clementine. Thanks so much.” And sorry for fucking the model.
“You guys have a good sleep … sleep together … night together … have a good night,” she chokes out, all hot and flustered. Ophelia manages a mangled thanks very much, and I think my lip might actually be bleeding from my pathetic attempt to bite back my smile.
God, I’ve missed her.
THE FIRST THREE restaurants I stopped at were full, and the fourth offered me a table in return for a social media post about how good the food is. Then Ophelia’s mood slipped from ebullient into hangry. She was annoyed at the rain, annoyed at her bra straps, annoyed at the traffic.
Fancy dinner plans long abandoned, she’s in the passenger seat of my car, hugging two steaming pizza boxes to her chest, sneaking tiny corners of crusts every thirty seconds when she thinks I’m not looking.
Her miserable music plays through the speakers, her thigh drumming beneath my hand. The darkness inside me has shrunk enough to let me take a full inhale.
“Saw that,” I say, as she sneaks a piece of pepperoni from my pizza and eats it.
“Saw what?”
“You’re stealing my toppings.”
She frowns over at me, face illuminated by the red light we’re stopped at. She’s ethereal. “You really are getting old. Let’s book you in for an eye test.”
I squint at her. “Who said that?”
She giggles as the light turns green, humming softly as I steer us through the driving rain and busy evening traffic to my father’s house in Kensington.
It’s a five-bedroom house at the end of a terrace on a well-kept road, furnished as tackily as you’d expect from a billionaire CEO who thinks gray crushed velvet is still on trend.
I park on the street, glancing around as I do. I have zero doubt that my father would love to get his hands on Ophelia. The street is quiet, neatly manicured hedges perfectly still. No sign of anything amiss.
I walk over to open the car door for Ophelia, taking the boxes from her lap. She’s quiet as we walk up to the front door, as she always is whenever she’s taking in how people like me live. I know she’s disgusted by the excess of it all.
“Another spare house,” she mutters, as I turn the key in the lock and enter the security code into the pad. “It’s like real-life Monopoly for you people.”
“And you’re the best Chance card I ever drew.”
She rolls her eyes, but her face flushes pink. “All right, Corbeau. Calm down.”
The house is cold and still, and I try to remember the last time the eight of us stayed here. Paris, we’ve spent a lot of time in, but London was a place we stopped visiting when my dad stopped caring about being a parent.
“Show me your bedroom!” she says, excitedly. “Have you got posters up? Embarrassing childhood pictures?”
I laugh, but it’s slightly strained. “It’s not that sort of home, love.” It wasn’t that sort of childhood.
I don’t bother with a tour, nor does she ask for one.
She follows me up the stairs and into the bedroom I usually sleep in.
The walls are white, the bathroom is marble.
The bookshelves are full of those clothbound coffee table books that no one would ever read.
Luxury Handbag Collections of the Nineties.
That kind of thing. There’s not a photo, poster, toy, or splash of color in the whole house. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
She flops onto the bed, taking her pizza from me. “We can stick your drawings up.”
I lie down beside her, flipping the lid of my pizza box. It looks like a mouse has been at it. “Your drawing is going in my office, where I can stare at it all day.”
She folds a slice in half and eats it in one bite. That’s my girl. “Sounds inappropriate for a corporate environment.”
“So is having phone sex with you while I’m sitting at my desk.”
She turns bright red. “Oops.”
“Yeah, oops.”
We lie on the bed, sprawled out over the duvet while making light work of two extra-large pizzas.
I pull my phone from my pocket, catching up on the sibling group chat. Mia has very thoroughly documented the baking process for her pistachio cookies, complete with a selfie of her and Evie at the end, cheeks full like hamsters.
Mia
You’re missing out, Alex
I look at the girl beside me, hair still messy from our time in the hall, a smudge of pizza sauce on her pink bottom lip.
I think I’ll manage.
Alex
You guys all okay? Save me a cookie, M.
Mia
All good here. Mom is currently telling the gardener that you’ve got a girlfriend again.
Evie
Breaking his heart, no doubt
Alex
I’m sure George is happy with his wife of twenty-five years.
Mia
Did Ophelia forgive you for being an ass?
Alex
Might’ve gotten away with it
Evie
Pics or it didn’t happen
I laugh, sending a blurry photo of the two of us on the bed.
élé
Cute dress
Mia
Send that to Mom. It’ll make her entire year.
I do just that, and then I toss my phone aside so I can make love to my girl.
I WAKE UP with a jolt, like something might’ve startled me.
Ophelia is sprawled out on top of me, naked limbs tangled with my own. Her hair fans out, fiery and wild in the strip of moonlight that bleeds through the white curtain.
I trace my finger over her cheek, waiting for my racing heartbeat to return to normal.
She’s here. We’re safe.
So why do I feel on edge?
I grab my phone from the bedside, careful not to wake Ophelia, and text Fleur a message.
Alex
Is all good at home?
Fleur
Isn’t it like 2am for you?
Alex
Woke up with a bad feeling
Fleur
Might be the clinical depression??
I snort quietly in the silent house. Yeah, might be.
Fleur
We’re all fine. The others are watching a movie before bed
Alex
How’s Freddie?
Fleur
Do you actually care?
I couldn’t summon two shits to give about her idiot boyfriend even if I spent all night trying my best, but I do care about Fleur, and should she find a man who makes her happy, I’ll try to get over my irrational fear of my sisters growing up.
Alex
I care about every element of your life, Fleur.
Fleur
Except my safety when Dad is on a rampage, of course.
I shut my eyes, letting out a slow exhale. If I apologize again, it’ll be the one thousandth time. But I’d do it again. My father while at the head of a billion-dollar company is completely bulletproof. Now, he has nothing.
Fleur
Freddie’s fine. Maybe you were right about him.
My phone is pressed to my ear in half a second, Fleur’s exasperated sigh in my ear. “What did he do?”
“Why are you anger-whispering?”
“Because I’m angry but Ophelia is sleeping. Tell me what he’s done.”
“He’s just … funny about my outfits.”
Nope. He has to go. I won’t have one of my sisters falling into a relationship that’ll end up like my parents’, where the honeymoon phase rots into a twisted dynamic where one of them sucks the life out of the other. “That’s a slippery slope, Fleur.”