CHAPTER FOURTEEN #2
Everyone’s patience wears thin in the heat trapped inside the Estate, but nobody more so than Jules, who decides to make Lachlan his personal whipping boy whenever they interact, and act out in new ways.
Overall, Jules possesses decent manners.
Lachlan has always observed that while he’s categorically a spoiled brat, he never forgets a please or thank you with the staff, but this is the summer that his attitude curdles hideously, slouching towards pure, deliberate insolence.
Jules takes to telling people who aren’t Mimi to get out whenever he likes, to, ‘Shut up,’ whenever he feels like it, to ‘Fuck off,’ when he’s angry and to ‘Just do it,’ when he wants something done.
Lachlan, who knows very well Jules is trying to provoke him, can’t help worrying Mimi will be the one punished when Alistair Penhalyx hears that his son is fast becoming a rude little bitch.
A nightmare to be around.
A stain on the name.
It’s not like Lachlan blames him. Jules is likely depressed, hormonal and frustrated. The heat makes everyone irritable and air-conditioning does less than nothing due to the size of the Estate, but rudeness like this makes Lachlan’s organs itch.
One day, Jules slides his plate off the edge of the table just to let it shatter across the floor, soup gone everywhere. Lachlan stands watching as people come to clean it up and Jules pays them no mind.
He’s pushing Lachlan, not the plate.
Seeking weakness. Measuring.
He must know Lachlan hates this kind of treatment, but it’s becoming tangled up with the creeping edge of sexuality that he’s pushing for in their more private interactions. New ways to torment Lachlan, who has to stay calm and do his job. He won’t lash out.
He cannot be provoked.
But Alistair Penhalyx, apparently, can.
?
The old man calls a meeting when he arrives.
He says he wants to speak privately with his son.
Lachlan is secretly relieved there’s no mention of Mimi, though he doesn’t let himself relax just yet. He escorts Jules to the West Wing.
The boy is silent and sullen, says nothing.
When he gives permission to enter, they find Alistair alone inside, which already doesn’t bode well. He’s writing by hand, working on something.
No entourage, no assistants.
It’s hot in there, stifling.
‘Take a seat, Julian,’ he directs in a distracted murmur. Lachlan stands at the side of the chair. They both wait in silence until the old man is ready. The old man sets his pen down, looks up. ‘Have you no greeting for your father?’
Jules crosses his arms. ‘Hi.’
Alistair surveys him with unnerving interest. ‘Why do you think I’m here?’
‘It’s not for me to know how you operate.’
Lachlan stays neutral. He can’t help him here, can’t steer him away from answers that will almost certainly end with Jules getting slapped by Lachlan’s own hand. Headstrong is an understatement when it comes to Jules.
‘Is that what I asked you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Why do you think I’m here?’
‘Maybe you missed us both so much you couldn’t bear to be away?’ Jules guesses, facetious in the extreme. Lachlan buries a wince.
Penhalyx’s eyes crease with displeasure. ‘I felt certain we were past this.’
‘Past what?’
‘This wretched spectacle you’re staging to court attention.’
‘I don’t want attention.’
‘No? That’s certainly not what my head of household informs me,’ Alistair muses, tone light although his gaze flits onto Lachlan for a beat, who feels it like a gut punch. ‘Tell me what you lack, Julian.’
‘Why? You don’t care.’
‘What you lack in this life I will provide, you know this.’
‘Because you don’t consider freedom and friendships essential.’
‘You have ample freedom and limitless resources. The type of “friendships” you seek to cultivate leave much to be desired, so Harker informed me last year. I must restrict you to this permitted sphere for now.’
‘Sphere?’ Jules echoes with a bitter smile. ‘You mean the fucking staff?’
‘Then who, precisely, should I permit near you?’ Alistair asks mildly.
‘Some vagrant dragged in from the street? Addicts? Grubby-handed teenagers from the slums? You are my son. You will always have a target on your back. I have explained this to you at least once a year since you were born. Your sister endures it with better grace, and she is an infant.’ Alistair rises to stand, graceful as ever, walking around to face his window.
‘To hear from my people what you have become places you so far beneath my expectations that disappointment no longer applies. I have been patient with you beyond all reason,’ Alistair says, gazing into the sunshine while his son sits in stifling shadows.
‘Absurdly so. You are indulged, delusional, and weak.’ He about turns.
Lachlan braces himself. Jules swallows very subtly. ‘I will summer here.’
It lands hard and hideous, steals the air from the room.
‘What?’ Jules blurts out.
‘I will relocate staff to operate from the West Wing while in residence as well as hosting here until September.’
‘Father, please.’
‘You beg for independence, Julian, and yet you stray so far from strength in my absence. I am withdrawing what little latitude you were generously granted. Congratulations for proving exactly why you can’t be trusted with it.’
Jules stands quickly. ‘Please, don’t. I was just doing it to—’
‘To what?’ the old man demands sharply, and Lachlan realises he’s never actually seen him angry until now.
‘Pray tell, what messy little outcome did you foresee when you began this crusade? Look at you,’ he sneers, cold and cruel.
‘My pretty boy, so handsome, so charming. None of them know how vapid you are, how weak, how empty. That you shine so well under harsh lights is your only saving grace from the fate you are tempting. I’ve no doubt your bodyguard’s clever friend could innovate where others failed to convince me of the suspension technology, and my life would be far easier for it. ’
Lachlan has no idea what he’s talking about, hopes he never does.
Jules, however, has turned deathly pale. ‘No.’
‘Silly boy,’ Alistair murmurs, tilting his head.
‘Did you imagine yourself indispensable to me? Such delusions are unbecoming of our kind.’ He glances toward the East Wing.
‘Do you have any idea what it costs to sustain your little world in there? The money, the time, the attention? It would underwrite companies, Julian. Cities. Small countries. You are not merely spoiled. You are obscenely overindulged, and I myself must manually correct you.’
‘Father, I’m sorry,’ Jules says, desperately trying to gain his attention. ‘Please. You’re right, I was doing it f-for attention. I never thought… I just wanted the bodyguard to get in trouble. I wanted him to—’
‘Enough!’
It silences Jules as if cutting his vocal cords.
Alistair looks at Lachlan.