Chapter 22
Stop ignoring my calls and get in touch!
I have an important question.
It’s about Amy.
Message from Grace to Garrett
Grace
I’d been buzzing with nervous energy since walking into the hotel that morning.
At first, I’d assumed it had something to do with my colleagues, who were still treating me with kid gloves even after three weeks back.
But it had gradually dawned on me that they weren’t the source of the restless flutter in my chest. Then I’d wondered if my nerves came from the fact that I’d neglected my investigation these past few days.
Or that I hadn’t exchanged a single word with my parents since our argument over dinner last week. But it was none of those things.
When I stepped onto The Darlington’s private floor in the afternoon, it finally hit me like a ton of bricks: The flutter in my chest was excitement.
I was excited to see Ethan again.
The realisation had been so alarming that I’d forced myself to deal with the other penthouses first, even though what I really wanted was to go straight to Ethan, despite sex being strictly off the table during working hours.
I’d be kicked straight out if anyone ever found out, and my investigation was nowhere near far enough along for me to risk losing my job.
Not to mention that, despite everything, I actually liked working at The Darlington and couldn’t imagine being anywhere else right now.
It probably would have been sensible to turn my focus from Ethan back to solving the case, but thanks to him, I didn’t feel awful for the first time in months.
He had given me something other than grief, pain, and anger, feelings that had weighed so heavily on me for so long that I’d forgotten what anything else felt like.
I scanned Mr. and Mrs. Darlington’s penthouse as I mentally went through my checklist. Bedroom: Check.
Master bathroom: Check. Living room: Check.
Kitchen: Check. Dining room: Check. Second bathroom: Check.
Gallery: Check. Guest bedroom: No check, because the door was locked and I couldn’t get in.
Mr. Darlington’s study: Also no check, because he was in there with someone, and I’d been putting off disturbing him.
But leaving without at least asking if there was anything else he wanted me to clean would only get me in trouble.
So I squared my shoulders, stepped up to the locked door, and knocked.
The voices inside fell silent. Then . . .
“Come in!”
I pushed the door open a crack. The acrid smell of cigar smoke hit me at once, making me cough.
Mr. Darlington wasn’t sitting at his desk as I’d expected, but in one of the two leather armchairs by the window, which offered a breathtaking view of the city.
He wasn’t alone, either. Opposite him sat Cabinet Member Alistair Eddington, a glass of whisky in hand.
The two men stared at me, and although they couldn’t have looked more different—Mr. Darlington with his blue eyes and dark-grey hair, and Mr. Eddington fair-haired with brown eyes—they were clearly cut from the same cloth.
The similarities were in their condescending looks, their rigid postures, and their ability to make you feel small without uttering a single word.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Darlington. Mr. Eddington, it’s nice to see you again,” I greeted the cabinet member. He used to be a regular guest at the hotel, though his visits had become rarer over the past year—most likely because the scandals surrounding Mr. Darlington could harm his election campaign.
“It’s a pleasure to see you again too, Miss Claymore,” Mr. Eddington said with a smile. I was surprised he remembered my name, though that was probably just one of his political talents. “I thought you’d left the hotel after your sister’s accident. My sincerest condolences.”
“Thank you. I took a little time off.”
“Understandable,” he replied with a nod.
“What do you want, Miss Claymore?” Mr. Darlington cut in.
“I’ve finished with the rest of the penthouse and just wanted to ask if you’d like me to clean in here as well.”
“Does it look like you can clean here?” Mr. Darlington snapped. “We’re busy.”
Smoking cigars and drinking whisky, I thought, but bit back the retort. Instead, I forced an apologetic smile. “Of course. And what about the guest room? It’s locked.”
“If my wife and I wanted you to clean the second bedroom, it wouldn’t be locked. Use your head.” He turned back to Mr. Eddington, his voice edged with a practiced politeness. “Apologies for the interruption. Competent staff are so hard to find these days.”
That was clearly my cue to leave. I pulled the door shut behind me and pushed Mr. Darlington’s final words as far out of my mind as I could.
I grabbed my cleaning trolley and the hoover and headed over to Ethan’s place.
I tried to rein in my bouncy steps—it was ridiculous.
I was acting like some lovesick teenager, instead of keeping my cool.
This was Beelzebub, for crying out loud.
And what was the thing I’d read online again?
Just because he’s good for your hole doesn’t mean he’s good for your soul.
I rang the bell to announce myself, then held the golden key card up to the sensor outside Ethan’s penthouse.
I pushed the door open. No matter how hard I tried, I still couldn’t keep the smile off my face.
I’d grown so used to being sad-Grace over these past few months that I’d almost forgotten about cheerful-Grace, the old me.
And thanks to Ethan, I now remembered what it felt like to be her, even if only for a little while.
He was slouched on the sofa with his computer on his lap.
Memories of the last time I’d seen him sitting there surfaced, sending a tingling between my thighs.
The feeling was strong enough to almost make me abandon my resolve to not sleep with Ethan during working hours.
Why did he have to be so damn attractive?
Even now, wearing just a plain T-shirt and the kind of jeans every guy in London owned, he looked devastatingly good.
“Hey!” I barely recognised my own voice, which came out high and a little squeaky.
Ethan looked up at me. His lips curved into a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His blue irises were dull, and the faint laughter lines that usually appeared when he smiled were absent.
“Hi.” Even his voice sounded different.
Something was wrong.
The excitement I’d felt at seeing him again collapsed like a house of cards, leaving only a simple thought: He doesn’t want you anymore. He’d had me, and now that his fantasy was fulfilled, I’d lost my appeal.
My stomach tightened, but I refused to let my wounded pride show. “I’d better get to work.”
“Can we talk first?” Ethan asked.
So you can tell me what happened between us was a mistake?
Rose had been right. Whatever was going on between Ethan and me wasn’t as simple as a one-night stand with a stranger.
We knew each other, and over the past few weeks, a small bond of friendship had started to form.
Ethan had helped me at the club, comforted me, shown understanding for my investigation, and kept me company on the hotel corridor floor.
And now he wanted to end all that, which hurt far more than I was willing to admit.
“Sure,” I said, folding my arms across my chest.
He cleared his throat. “Could you sit down?”
He apparently wasn’t planning to get it over with quickly and painlessly, but he couldn’t hurt me.
No pain could ever compare with losing Amy.
Ethan might bruise my pride, but he couldn’t break me.
Or at least that was what I told myself as I sat down beside him on the sofa, leaving a deliberate gap between us so his scent and his closeness wouldn’t cloud my thoughts.
“What do you want to talk about?” I asked, as if I didn’t already know.
Without a word, Ethan reached for the sheet of paper lying on the table in front of him. Was he really going to end things with a letter? No, that wasn’t his style.
He handed me the handwritten note. Five names were listed on it:
Frederick Beaumont
Rupert Carrington
Isabella Kensington (?)
Courtney Larson
Claude Asterdam (?)
I knew these people. Not personally, but I knew of them.
They were all friends of Mr. and Mrs. Darlington.
Mr. Beaumont golfed with Mr. Darlington every Sunday, and Mrs. Kensington co-chaired London’s Finest Society with Mrs. Darlington—a women’s club for bored, rich trophy wives.
Mrs. Larson was an old school friend of Mr. Darlington, and Mr. Carrington, a childhood friend of Mrs. Darlington, was now a banker who managed their fortune.
The ties between the Asterdams and the Darlingtons were numerous.
Claude and Natalia Asterdam’s children were friends with Henry and Ethan, and Olivia had even dated Henry for a while.
Mr. and Mrs. Darlington naturally hadn’t told me any of this, but you couldn’t help but get to know people when you worked for them and spent as much time in their home as I did.
Ethan cleared his throat again. “I know you didn’t ask me for help, and I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Amy and what you told me about her accident. I did a bit of digging . . . and this is what I found.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, confused. My brain was still too focussed on preparing for Ethan to dump me to follow what he was saying.
“These are the names of my suspects,” he explained patiently, setting down his laptop.
I glanced at the screen. An Excel spreadsheet was open, full of names marked up in different colours.
“Like I said, I couldn’t stop thinking about Amy and the accident, so I talked to Henry and Hank from security to find out more about the night of the Pearl Gala.”
My lips formed a silent oh. “You didn’t have to do that.”