Chapter 3 #2
I could practically hear a collective sigh of relief. I told them to enjoy their break, and as soon as the door closed behind me, their voices started up again—not pitying, this time, but once again at ease.
Dejected, I made my way back to the lift, trying to ignore how much it hurt, how disappointed I was.
I felt like a stranger at the hotel, which had become my second home over the past two years, and an outsider among my colleagues, who had become my second family.
The Darlington was where I had met Rose and later Kate, my two best friends.
Working at The Darlington usually brought people together, because it was always us, the staff, against them—the ridiculously rich guests.
But today it didn’t feel like us against them.
It felt like me against the rest of the world.
As I walked, I pulled from my bag the golden key card that gave me access to the Darlington family’s private floor.
They lived in separate penthouses on the top floor, and only a select few staff members were allowed up there.
Who got access and who didn’t was a matter of careful consideration.
I stepped into the lift, scanned the card, and pushed the button for the penthouse floor. The lift shot up within seconds.
It was just as luxurious up here as in the rest of The Darlington.
The carpet was an immaculate burgundy red.
Golden chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and the walls were lined with oil paintings in solid frames.
They were all originals and worth a fortune, though the subjects weren’t particularly picturesque.
I grabbed the cleaning trolley and the hoover from the utility room and decided, just this once, to start with the hotel’s very own rubbish dump—a.k.a.
Beelzebub’s lair, a.k.a. the flat that belonged to Ethan Darlington, the youngest of the Darlington brothers.
I usually saved it till the end, because cleaning it was the part of my job I hated the most. But if anyone could distract me from my pain, it was Ethan.
He might have been the heir to a snooty luxury hotel, but he lived the life of a rock star.
His parties were wild, loud, and excessive, and once they were over, his flat looked like a tornado had ripped through it.
But that wasn’t even the worst part—that would be Ethan himself.
He was every bit as disrespectful and arrogant as he was hot.
And unfortunately, he was extremely hot.
Not just the kind of hot that makes knees go weak, but the kind that makes knickers wet.
It was deeply unfair, because no one with such an obnoxious personality had any right to be so attractive.
And it was pretty much impossible to wish him ill while my body delighted at the idea of having sex with him.
I would never have admitted it, not even under torture, but Ethan had starred in my fantasies more than once when I spent quality time with my vibrator.
If he couldn’t take my mind off things, no one could.
As always, I rang the bell to announce myself before scanning the key card to open the door.
I mentally prepared myself for total chaos.
It was Monday, and Ethan and his friends had most likely spent all weekend partying in here.
I took one final deep breath, steeling myself for the stench of booze and weed I was surely about to face.
But to my surprise, when I pushed the door open, I was met by the fresh scent of lemongrass.
And it didn’t look like a bomb of empty bottles, cups, and pizza boxes had exploded in the middle of the living room. It was tidy. Spotless, to be precise.
Had I accidentally stumbled into Henry’s flat?
No, this was clearly Ethan’s. His glossy black piano stood in the corner, and the cabinet under the gigantic television held several gaming consoles and a collection of games that Jason would have gone wild for.
What was going on? Had Giulia already sent another chambermaid to clean, thinking I couldn’t deal with the chaos on my first day back?
But that wasn’t possible. There was only one golden key card, and I’d had it since this morning.
“Hey.”
I flinched at the sound of a deep voice—the one that had haunted far too many of my dreams. I spun around, and there he was: Ethan.
He was sitting in front of his laptop at the kitchen island, a book marked up with countless Post-it notes beside him.
Was he . . . studying? It looked like it, based on the fact that he was wearing his black-rimmed glasses, which he usually ditched in favour of contact lenses.
It was a bizarre sight. Had I stumbled into a parallel universe?
I’d caught Ethan in plenty of compromising situations before but had never once seen him studying.
It was disconcerting. But there was one thing that hadn’t changed: My body responded to him with a hunger I was powerless to resist.
“Hey, Beelzebub,” I greeted him, doing my best to keep my voice neutral.
He looked just as incredible as he had the last time I’d seen him, at the Pearl Gala.
That evening, he’d worn an elegant black three-piece suit; now he was sporting dark jogging bottoms and a grey hoodie.
Even the baggy clothes couldn’t disguise his athletic build.
It was the way he carried himself, his broad shoulders and upright posture.
I would have slumped on his backless stool like a sack of potatoes, but he somehow managed to look graceful.
Ethan gave me a once-over. “You’re back.”
I smiled, which astonishingly didn’t feel forced or pinched, for the first time today. “Yes. Did you miss me? Why am I even asking? Of course you missed me. I know I’m the absolute highlight of your day.”
Ethan removed his glasses, and somehow even that very ordinary gesture looked seductive on him.
He got up and made his way over to me. The closer he got, the clearer his blue eyes became.
They were as beautiful as the sea—and just as dangerous.
At first glance, they seemed deceptively calm, but a closer look tended to reveal the jagged rocks lurking just beneath the surface.
Only today, I couldn’t see the rocks, no matter how hard I tried.
There was something else in his eyes, though.
Something that threw me, because I’d never seen it in Ethan before.
Just then, I realised what it was: pity.
Fuck.
My.
Life.
Ethan Darlington, king of arseholes, self-professed womaniser, and full-time egomaniac, pitied me. How pathetic must I have looked for someone like him to feel sorry for me?
He stopped a few steps away. Apart from his hands, which were shoved casually into his pockets, he seemed stiff and strangely awkward. “I heard what happened to your sister, and—”
“Don’t you dare,” I hissed, a finger raised.
“What?”
My stomach clenched. “Don’t you dare be nice to me.”
He stopped short. “I just wanted to—”
“Forget it!” I cut him off again. I couldn’t bear to hear even a single word of comfort coming from his mouth.
But it was already too late. My lower lip began to tremble.
Maybe it was the morose looks my colleagues had been giving me all day.
Maybe it was being so close to where the accident had happened.
Or maybe it was simply that Amy was dead.
Whatever the reason, I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
The wall around my heart had completely crumbled, suddenly setting my grief free.