Chapter 1
Hey, it’s probably none of my business, but is Ethan OK? James is worried about him. He’s overdoing it a bit with the parties.
Message from Olivia to Henry
Ethan
One Week After the Accident
I’m going to throw up.
The thought was accompanied by a sour feeling in my throat, although I wasn’t sure whether the nausea had been brought on by yesterday’s alcohol or the protein shake I drank just now.
It could also have been a combination of the two: the shake and the mix of tequila, beer, gin and tonic, and whisky. It had been a wild night.
I grimaced and dumped the shaker, with its dregs of protein gunk, in the dishwasher.
I hated the stuff with a passion. No matter how many different brands I tried, they all tasted the same to me.
Like someone had blended old shoes, dirt, and something mouldy.
But there was no denying that the shakes worked wonders on my body, so I forced myself to push past my disgust.
I poured myself a glass of water and downed it to get rid of the taste, hoping to flush the queasiness away.
I hated throwing up. I’d thankfully mostly managed to avoid doing so in the past few months, but I was afraid it would come for me soon if I didn’t slow down.
I pretty much hadn’t been sober since Christmas—the parties this time of year were just too good.
First the Pearl Gala, then Nate’s birthday two days later, followed by New Year’s Eve, and finally Olivia Asterdam’s legendary New Year’s party last night.
My stomach may have hated me for my party marathon, but I needed to forget.
To feel the emptiness. I wanted that indifference, when the only time that existed was right now and I didn’t care about anything else.
Knocking back one shot after another, it didn’t matter that my dad was a bastard of a rapist who was ruining all of our lives.
Smoking a joint, I could forget how lost I felt.
And when I wore myself out on the dance floor or in bed with a hot woman, it was easier to ignore how lonely I really was.
Most people didn’t give a shit about me, but the parties at least created the illusion that I wasn’t alone.
I laughed at myself. I was a pathetic loser—but knowing that wouldn’t stop my feet from carrying me to the next party tonight.
To the next hours of oblivion. To the next evasion of my problems. For a few hours, I’d feel better.
But only until I sobered up. It was impossible to break this vicious cycle without losing my mind.
Really? a critical voice in my head asked.
My voice.
A voice that I’d silenced a long time ago, because it had brought me nothing but pain, suffering, and grief in the past. Luckily, the buzz of my phone saved me from myself. It was a message from James, probably the only person who actually cared about me.
James:
Hey, are you all right?
You were pretty out of it yesterday.
Out of it? What was that supposed to mean? I’d just been having fun.
Me:
Yeah, I’m fine. Just a bit hungover.
A bit. The understatement of the century. The litre of water I’d drunk before bed and the pills that took the edge off my pounding headache were all that were stopping me from being completely wrecked.
James:
Is it true that you went home with Britney last night?
Me:
Yes.
James:
Didn’t she come with Charles?
Me:
Yes. Which made it even better.
James:
Why do you always have to provoke him?
Me:
Provoke? Can I help it if Britney’s not into him?
James:
Maybe not, but you could have picked some other girl.
Me:
But I didn’t want to.
James:
Forget it. You’re hopeless. Want to go for brunch before I head back to Cambridge?
Me:
I was going to go to the gym.
James:
Jesus. Why do you hate yourself?
It was an excellent question, one I’d rather not answer.
Me:
No pain, no gain.
James:
Have fun torturing yourself. I’m going for brunch. Bye!
I wished him a safe drive to Cambridge, and then forced myself to head down to the hotel gym, resisting the urge to go back to bed.
I had a gym of my own in my penthouse, but I knew it wasn’t a good idea to work out alone in my condition.
I might have been masochistic, but I didn’t have a death wish.
With a bottle of water in one hand and a towel slung over my shoulder, I followed the corridor to the lifts.
The top floor of The Darlington was completely silent.
Thankfully, it was a private floor with no guest rooms, unlike the rest of the hotel.
There were only four penthouse flats: One belonged to my parents; one to my eldest brother, Henry; one to me; and the fourth was unoccupied.
There were also a few rooms for family guests, but as both my mum and dad were only children and my grandparents were dead, they were rarely used.
With a melodic chime, the lift announced its arrival, and the doors slid open.
For a split second, my foggy brain was convinced I’d come face-to-face with a mirror before I realised I wasn’t looking at my reflection but at Henry standing in the lift.
We looked almost identical with our black hair, ice-blue eyes, and striking features, which we’d inherited from our dad.
“Hey,” he greeted me.
“Hey,” I returned.
Although we were only six years apart, there was no real sense of brotherliness between us.
We’d never had the chance to really get to know each other, and over the years, the rift had only grown wider.
Part of me wished we were closer, but that would require a level of honesty and openness I wasn’t willing to give right now.
Henry stepped into the lift doorway, blocking my path.
I didn’t like how closely he was studying me, but I still held his gaze, examining him in return.
Although in reality, there were only minor physical differences between us—he was a little taller, whereas I was slightly broader—in that moment, we looked completely different.
He was neat and put together in his tailored suit; I, on the other hand, not only felt like shit but probably looked like it too, with my pale skin and the dark circles under my eyes.
“Do you have a minute?” Henry asked.
I crossed my arms. “Depends what for.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Am I in trouble?” If I was, I didn’t want to know.
“No.”
I hesitated anyway. I could count on one hand the conversations Henry and I had had over the last year. His request to talk to me now both piqued my curiosity and made me nervous.
My curiosity eventually won out. I nodded, and Henry gestured for me to follow him.
Although I’d been back in London for a year and a half, I’d not once set foot in Henry’s penthouse, the door to which he now held open for me.
His flat was a mirror image of mine, yet it looked very different.
His penthouse felt like a home, while mine was just a stopgap.
Where my walls were bare, he had framed photographs of friends and family hanging on his.
Plants and decorative touches gave the room character, and a shelf next to his television held his impressive London Has Fallen DVD collection, which I’d only ever heard about.
It was some kind of inside joke with our brother, Logan, whom I knew even less well than Henry.
My flat seemed lifeless in comparison—at least when I didn’t have five dozen people around to help me trash it.
“Do you want a drink?” Henry asked.
“No, thanks.”
He indicated for me to sit on the couch and took a seat a short distance away. I waited for him to say something, but for several seconds, there was silence as he sized me up from head to toe.
“Is everything OK?” he asked finally.
“Yeah. I’m great,” I lied.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
I frowned. “What’s with the interrogation?”
Henry gave a heavy sigh, and only now did I see that he was exhausted. “Olivia texted me earlier.” James’s sister, Olivia, was one of Henry’s best friends. “Apparently James is worried about you. He says you’re drinking a lot at the moment. More than usual. Is that true?”
“No,” I replied instinctively, perhaps a little too fast. Then I backpedalled.
“OK, maybe I have been drinking more lately. But it doesn’t mean anything. It was the holidays. Christmas, New Year’s Eve—and in between, there was the Pearl Gala and Nate’s birthday. I’ll slow down. And why do you even care? It has nothing to do with you.”
“No, but it has to do with you. And you’re my brother.”
I snorted. Blood ties or not, we were still strangers. “Once again, what’s it to you?”
“Ethan . . .”
“Henry,” I mimicked, but he didn’t take the bait.
“I know we’re not particularly close, but that doesn’t mean I don’t worry about you when I hear things like that,” Henry said, rubbing his hands together in a nervous gesture that, to me, didn’t seem like him.
Until now, he’d always struck me as unflappable.
Calm, like someone with no problems, only solutions.
I’d always been a little envious of that quality of his.
If I were even half as organised as Henry, my life would be so much easier.
“I’m not here to make you feel guilty or judge you.
Quite the opposite. I understand better than anyone how hard this situation is.
We’re all trying to find a way to deal with it, but not every way is the right one. ”
“Sounds pretty judgmental to me. You seem to think your way is right and mine is wrong.”
Henry laughed loudly, but it was a cold and joyless sound. “Believe me, no way is as wrong as mine. I . . .” He interrupted himself, his gaze suddenly tight with self-control. Once again, he eyed me before continuing. “If I tell you something, will you promise to keep it to yourself?”
Surprised, I frowned. I had no idea what kind of a secret someone like Henry could possibly have, but I was already keeping so many of my own that one more wouldn’t make a difference. “If I have to.”
He took a deep breath, as if bracing himself for his next words. “I have an addiction problem.”