Chapter 9
Hottest Face in British High Society: Ethan Darlington
INsider online poll
Ethan
“What are we toasting to?” James asked, raising his shot glass.
We were sitting on plush sofas in the VIP lounge of the newly opened club.
The former industrial hall was packed, and the air was thick with alcohol, sweat, and the smoke from the fog machine shrouding the dance floor.
The DJ—definitely not Deadmau5—urged the crowd to sing along to the next track.
Bellowing voices filled the room, but thankfully, we were up in the gallery, so we were spared the worst of it.
“We don’t have to toast to something every round,” Charles replied.
“But it’s more fun this way,” James said.
“You can drink to the hottest face in high society,” suggested a husky voice.
I looked up and gazed straight into the seductively made-up eyes of Jessica Thompson. Jessie wore a red dress that stopped just below her thighs, showing off every inch of her slim figure. Her straight blond hair fell over her shoulders, and her smile was almost unnaturally, blindingly white.
“Hey, Jessie,” Charles said, looking at the model with a spark in his eyes. Any second now, he might start drooling, tongue lolling from his mouth. “Do you want to join us?” He slid over before she had the chance to answer.
“Sure,” Jessie said, but instead of sitting in the now-open spot next to Charles, she squeezed in beside me on the sofa, though there was hardly any room. She ended up perched more on my lap than on the sofa seat. Charles gave me a dirty look, as if it were my fault.
Without asking, Jessie grabbed one of the shots from the table in front of us. “To the hottest face in the city!”
“The country,” I corrected, as if the accolade mattered to me in the slightest. The INsider had done an online poll—which I’d only found out about two hours ago—and I’d been voted the most attractive man in British high society. It was a ridiculous award and didn’t mean anything.
Charles snorted. “Evidently everyone who voted for you has terrible taste.”
“You’re just jealous you didn’t make the top ten,” James shot back in my defence, his eyes following an older woman in a blue dress who had walked past our table several times in the last ten minutes, clearly hoping to draw our attention.
“Says the guy who came in a place behind me,” Charles retorted.
James ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s not all about looks. What’s inside matters too.”
“If that were the case, we’d all come in last place,” I said dryly.
Jessie broke out in loud laughter, as if I’d just told the joke of the night.
Charles and James looked at me sullenly.
I was the only one of us still sober, although my urge to go off the rails was strong—not just to drown my sorrows, but to provoke my dad and get back at him for so smugly lecturing me to behave impeccably.
But getting wasted wouldn’t just hurt him; it would hurt Henry, Mum, and most of all, me.
“You didn’t call me back,” Jessie said softly.
She had leant closer, and her breasts pressed against my upper arm.
The sweet scent of vanilla rose to my nose and stirred something in my groin, bringing back memories of our time together at the Pearl Gala.
After my dad’s crisis manager, Vivian, had forced me into a family photo with my parents and Henry, I’d taken Jessie back to my penthouse to escape the stuffy event.
“I’ve been busy,” I said evasively.
Jessie traced a finger down my chest. “It sounds like you’ve had a stressful few weeks. I can help you relax.”
“Not interested,” I said.
She blinked. “Why not?”
I removed Jessie’s hand from my chest. “Don’t get me wrong. I had a great night with you. But I’m just not cut out for more than one night, if you know what I mean.”
She pouted. “But why? We were so good together.”
“We were, but that doesn’t change anything.”
Jessie finally got the message. Her expression cooled, and she drew away, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “Too bad. You’re missing out.”
“I’m sure I am,” I replied, my cock berating me. But parties, sex, and booze had always gone hand in hand for me, and without one, the others suddenly seemed less appealing. Even if my body disagreed.
“Hey!”
Nate was back, just in time to save me from my conversation with Jessie. He’d slipped away earlier to try his luck with a redhead who’d smiled at him from across the VIP lounge. Now she stood at his side, with his arm draped over her possessively.
“Reagan, may I introduce my friends? This is James Asterdam. His family more or less owns the British fashion industry. His mum is the designer Natalia Asterdam, and his dad is the CEO of Asterdam Fashion,” Nate explained, clearly trying to impress Reagan with the wealth and influence of his friends.
“The guy next to James is Charles Eddington. His mum is in real estate. All those fancy new skyscrapers you see around the city are her doing. His dad, Alistair Eddington, is a cabinet member and is running for prime minister in the next election.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” said Charles, raising his glass to Reagan.
“And the unfriendly looking one is Ethan Darlington. His—”
“I know you!” Reagan cut Nate off. “Your dad is that rapist.”
“Alleged rapist,” Charles countered. “He’s not been convicted yet. Innocent till proven guilty, as they say.”
Strictly speaking, it should have been my job to defend my dad, but what was the point?
He was guilty. The hearing was still to come, but I knew the indictment, and more importantly, I knew my dad.
I didn’t doubt that he’d abused those women.
I couldn’t say that aloud, of course, but I wouldn’t lie either, so I kept quiet.
How people chose to interpret my silence was up to them.
Reagan wrinkled her nose. Her look of distaste suggested she didn’t share Charles’s opinion.
Nate jumped in before she could reply and start an argument. “I feel like dancing. You?”
Reagan hesitated.
“Come on! I’m a great dancer.” That was an outright lie—Nate was a terrible dancer—but she nodded anyway, and Nate whisked her away from our table before she could change her mind.
He shot me a withering look as he left, as if I were to blame for my dad’s crimes almost costing him a one-night stand.
“Do you want to dance too?” Charles turned to Jessie, who’d been silently following the conversation. She was still sitting next to me, lips pursed in a sulky pout.
“Sure.”
Charles took Jessie’s hand and pulled her to her feet.
He shot me a smug look, as if she’d been mine and he’d just stolen her away from me.
They left the VIP lounge and followed Nate and Reagan, leaving just me and James.
He slid onto the sofa beside me. I was pretty well built and had honed my body to near-perfection at the gym over the last few months.
James, on the other hand, was slimmer—he had a Timothée Chalamet vibe, only blond.
“That’s a safe bet you just let go to Charles,” he said.
“Safe is boring.”
“But boring suits your new image. I’ve been hearing things. Apparently, you haven’t shown your face anywhere for ages,” James said, eyeing me from over the rim of his glass. “I’m worried about you.”
It was strange. First, he’d been worried that I was partying too much, and now it was that I didn’t party enough.
I beckoned a waitress over. “I’m fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar, Darlington.”
He was wrong. I was an excellent liar. I just didn’t feel the need to be convincing with him. The waitress arrived at our table, and I ordered another water. When I turned back, James was still watching me.
“You can talk to me, you know.”
I avoided his gaze. “I know. But some shit you just have to go through on your own.”
“I get that. Still—if you ever need someone to listen, I’m here.
And if you ever want to get away, you can always visit me in Cambridge.
Mi casa es su casa.” James clapped my shoulder encouragingly.
“But until then, at least try not to look so mopey. It’s dragging everyone down, and it’s not doing you any favours either. ”
“But that would?” I said, glancing down from the gallery at the dance floor, where our friends were dancing with the two women. If it could even be called dancing. At this point, it was more like public foreplay.
“Maybe,” James said with a shrug, sipping his whisky sour. “Besides, Jessie doesn’t really want Charles. She’s totally into you. Go for it!”
“Everyone’s into me.”
“See, now that’s the spirit!” James cheered me on.
It wasn’t the spirit—it was just one of my better lies.
The waitress brought my water. I took a sip and let my eyes wander across the dance floor and the bar. Suddenly, a familiar face caught my attention.
Grace Claymore.
I slid forward on the sofa to get a better view of her over the gallery railing.
Her blond hair was pinned up to reveal the tempting, smooth skin of her bare neck and shoulders.
She wore a dark, figure-hugging dress that accentuated every enticing curve of her body, and the tug I’d felt earlier with Jessie returned a hundred times stronger.
“Hey, I know her. Isn’t that the maid who cleans your place?
” James asked, having noticed my stare. He leant forward to get an unobstructed view of Grace and her friend, whom I hadn’t paid any attention to until then.
She had dark hair, and I was pretty sure I’d seen her at The Darlington before too.
I nodded. “Yeah. Grace.”
James gave an approving grunt as he studied them. “They’re hot. Shall we go over?”
I glared at him. “Keep your hands off them.”
“Possessive,” he teased. “Which one are you into?”
I avoided his eyes. “Neither.”
“The brunette?”
“I said neither.”
“So the blond, then,” James concluded.
I didn’t bother protesting again. It didn’t matter how attractive I found Grace, how much our verbal sparring matches aroused me, or how many times in the last year I’d fantasised about bending her over my kitchen counter in that maid’s outfit—nothing was ever going to happen between us.
“Fine, I’ll stay away from them. But I’m not sitting around here all night being all broody with you. I want to have some fun.” The way he emphasised the word made it perfectly clear what kind of fun he meant.
“Don’t let me stop you.”
I didn’t have to tell him twice. He leapt to his feet, gave my shoulder an encouraging pat, and bounded off after the woman in the blue dress, who had walked past our table at least three more times by now.
My attention snapped right back to Grace and her friend. They were still at the bar, but no longer alone. Two men had joined them. Grace’s friend laughed about something one of the men had said and laid a flirtatious hand on his arm. Grace, on the other hand, kept her distance.
I watched the scene for a while. Eventually, Grace’s friend and one of the men made their way to the dance floor, leaving Grace at the bar with the other.
It didn’t take a genius to see she had zero interest in him.
Her smile was forced, and she was putting as much physical space between them as she could.
The guy finally seemed to realise that he was fighting a losing battle, said goodbye and melted into the crowd.
As soon as he left, Grace’s smile faded. She turned back towards the bar so I could only see her back, but her slumped shoulders told me all I needed to know. The memory of her breaking down before me returned unbidden.
I couldn’t imagine what she was going through, but I knew what pain felt like.
I’d had my share of sadness and, above all, loneliness.
I was so familiar with that feeling that I recognised it as soon as I saw it.
Grace was lonely. In this club, surrounded by hundreds of people, she felt abandoned.
Maybe just by her friend, or maybe by the entire world.
I doubted that I, of all people, could take away her loneliness, but I didn’t want to leave her alone with it either.
I decided to check on her. Just for a moment, to make sure she was doing OK.