Chapter 33
I was glad you could be there on Friday. Maybe we could do it again sometime soon. I hope Grace is doing well?
Message from Logan to Ethan
Ethan
By mid-April, spring had finally got the memo that it was time to shine, and I could go jogging in the park again without ending up with frostbite. The weather had become much milder over the last few weeks, and what had been dull and grey in winter was now bursting with colour.
I slowed down and stopped my fitness tracker, satisfied with the numbers on the screen. Heading back towards The Darlington, I unclipped the water bottle from my running vest and took a long drink.
“Hey.”
A young woman had appeared beside me. She was also in running gear, and her black hair was tied up in a high ponytail. She smiled softly.
“Hey,” I replied.
“I don’t know if you noticed, but we jogged past each other twice just now,” the woman said, slightly hesitant. “You caught my eye, and I was wondering if you wanted to get a coffee with me?”
A few months ago, I probably would have said yes. She was attractive and about my age. But even though Grace and I had never said we were exclusive, the idea of going out with another woman felt wrong.
“Thanks for asking, but I’m seeing someone.” Saying it felt right.
“That’s a shame. Your girlfriend is a lucky woman.”
“I’ll pass it on,” I replied with a smile, gave a small wave, and carried on towards the hotel.
I wasn’t the only one spring had woken up today; it had also brought out the tourists in droves, taking photos of Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, and the red phone booths.
I entered The Darlington through the back door to avoid the journalists and took the lift up to my floor.
The metal doors had barely opened when I heard my dad’s furious voice.
Normally I would have ignored it, but then I heard Henry too, just as loud.
I followed the voices to my parents’ door and rang the bell. The fighting stopped instantly. Silence fell, then I heard footsteps, before my mum opened the door. She was deathly pale, her eyes glassy.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she replied with a shaky smile.
I didn’t believe her, so I stepped past her into the penthouse.
Henry and our dad were joined by his crisis manager, Vivian, and his three lawyers—Boyd, Chawla, and Sandhu.
They all wore serious expressions, which wasn’t unusual; in the courtroom, they never looked like people who laughed much.
But today, there was none of their usual confidence or arrogance either.
“What are you all doing here?”
“Beholding human scum,” Henry said from the sofa, pointing at our dad. His expression was just as grim as the lawyers’, and if looks could kill, our dad would’ve had a heart attack on the spot.
“I’ve never seen that woman in my life!” our dad shouted. The vein on his forehead that stood out when he was angry looked ready to burst. “Someone is trying to frame me.”
“Sure,” Henry said, his voice dripping with scorn.
I had a pretty good idea of what might have happened, but I still looked to Vivian for a clear answer.
She was the calmest person in the room—probably because dealing with human scum had been her day job for years.
But instead of replying, she pressed a button on the remote, turning the television on.
Henry shook his head and looked away, and even Sandhu seemed suddenly very interested in his shoes.
“New incriminating evidence has come to light in the Richard Darlington case, which has gripped public attention for months,” the reporter said gravely.
According to the time stamp in the top right corner, it wasn’t a live broadcast, but had aired about an hour earlier.
“Since March, Richard Darlington has been on trial for the sexual abuse of three former hotel employees. A verdict is still pending, but a new plaintiff could be decisive in this case. Hazel Parker, who was seventeen at the time, has accused Darlington of drugging her at a charity gala and forcing her to have sex with him.”
The reporter paused dramatically to let her words sink in. And they had their effect—they were like a punch in the gut, not only confirming my suspicions, but going one step further. Seventeen? My dad had raped a seventeen-year-old? Calling him human scum would almost be too generous.
“Video footage from the evening supports her allegations,” the reporter continued.
My mum let out a whimper behind me as the image on the TV changed and the video began to play.
It was black and white, slightly grainy, and showed what looked like a storage room.
The door to the room was flung open, and two people entered.
Despite the pixelated quality, my dad was clearly recognisable.
He was with a young woman in a dress, who hung limply in his arms.
My insides clenched as I watched my dad manoeuvre the nearly unconscious girl to a table and lay her out on it. Hazel was clearly trying to get up, but couldn’t. The video was censored with pixels, but it didn’t leave much to the imagination. Vivian switched off the TV.
I was grateful: I’d seen enough. Having to hear in court what my dad had done to those women was bad enough.
Seeing it with my own eyes was repulsive in an entirely new way.
I didn’t want to begin to imagine how Hazel must have felt in that moment, while a man who was old enough to be her father—or even her grandfather—raped her: defenceless, frightened, and numb.
The fact that he had drugged her made it even worse, because it showed that his crime had been planned.
“You disgust me,” Henry said, voicing what I was thinking.
What everyone was probably thinking. He got up from the sofa and stepped in front of our dad.
“I expect you out of The Darlington by the end of the week. I don’t want to see you here anymore.
Mum, you can stay if you want. But you,” he raised his hand and jabbed his finger into our dad’s chest, “get out.”
Our dad batted Henry’s hand away. “You can’t kick me out.”
“I can and I will,” Henry retorted. “I’ve tolerated your presence at The Darlington until now because it’s your home.
But that’s over now. Either you get out of here, or I’ll hold a press conference and dish all the dirt on you that’s piled up over the years.
And when I say all the dirt, I mean all of it.
Your choice, Richard. Pack your bags and get out of here, or stay and watch me tear you apart until there’s nothing left. ”
My dad’s jaw clenched, and I was afraid he would fly at my brother at any moment. “That would cost you the hotel.”
“I don’t care,” Henry said firmly, sounding so determined that I couldn’t tell whether or not he was bluffing. He loved The Darlington, but after everything that had happened in recent weeks and months, perhaps that love wasn’t as unconditional as before.
I heard footsteps behind me, followed by a door slamming. I turned and saw that my mum had left the room. I followed, leaving Henry and our dad to argue.
I knocked gently on the guest bedroom door, but there was no answer.
I tried the handle, and it thankfully gave.
Inside, I immediately noticed a pair of pyjamas on the bed.
On the bedside table lay a book and a bottle of hand cream.
Clothes hung in the wardrobe. This was clearly no longer a guest room. My mum was sleeping here.
She sat now in an armchair by the window, her face buried in her hands. Her sobs filled the room, breaking my heart.
I closed the door behind me and approached her cautiously. “Mum?”
She didn’t respond, just continued crying hard with her shoulders shaking.
I knelt before her, not knowing what to say. Nothing could make this fucked-up situation any better. So I did the only thing I could think to do: I put my arms around her. I wanted her to know that she wasn’t alone. We were all trapped in this hell Richard Darlington had made for us.
My insides were in knots when I left the guest room an hour later, and my shirt was soaked with my mum’s tears.
She had cried herself to sleep, exhausted, which was probably for the best. At least this way, she’d be spared a few hours of pain and humiliation.
My throat felt raw and constricted, as though I might choke on the feelings boiling inside me.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I had done everything in the past few weeks to bring some order back into my life, to salvage what was left of this family.
At times, like that evening with Logan and Henry, I’d actually believed it was possible.
But now I was no longer sure. It felt like everything was falling apart all over again.
“Has your mother finally calmed down?” I heard my dad ask.
I looked up to see him now alone in the room, sitting in a leather armchair.
He was smoking a cigar and held a glass of scotch.
With his legs crossed casually, he looked completely carefree.
There was no trace of tears or remorse in his eyes.
The anger had vanished from his face, leaving only a mask of indifference.
He cared about nothing and no one. He had no conscience, no morals.
Those women whose lives he’d ruined meant absolutely nothing to him, just like my mum meant nothing to him.
If he cared about her even the slightest bit, he would have shown at least a hint of shame.
My mother didn’t need to calm down. She had every right to be hurt, angry, and upset, as did I.
I was seething—which was probably the reason for what I said next.
“Shut the hell up,” I hissed.
My dad drew himself up. “What did you say?”
I strode over to him, stopping right in front of his armchair so he had to tilt his head back to look at me. My burning glare locked onto his icy one. Again, I was reminded of how much I hated the fact that I looked like him. Why did I have to inherit his features?
“I said, shut the hell up,” I repeated.
He pressed his lips together, set his cigar down in the ashtray, and got to his feet. He was close enough that I could smell his stale, smoky breath. “You can’t talk to me like that.”
“I can and I will,” I shot back, echoing Henry. “How can you treat Mum like this? I have no idea what she sees in you, but for some unfathomable reason, she seems to love you. I can’t see why else she would put up with your shit.”
“Your mum is no saint.”
“Maybe not. But she’s not a pathetic bastard like you either.”
The vein on his forehead bulged. “Watch what you say.”
“Or what?”
He eyed me. “You know exactly what.”
I shook my head. “You don’t scare me. Not anymore.”
“I’m still your father.”
“And I wish you weren’t.”
The slap came out of the blue. A burning, familiar pain flashed across my cheek, bringing back all the memories I had banished to the deepest recesses of my mind.
They hit me with a force stronger than the blow itself, nearly knocking me off my feet and unleashing a flood of feelings I had hoped to never feel again—panic, fear, helplessness, weakness.
But I was no longer weak and helpless, no longer a little boy at the whim of his father’s moods.
I was a grown man. I was bigger than him.
Stronger. I didn’t seem to have more self-restraint than him, though, because before I knew what I was doing, I gave my dad a powerful shove.
He stumbled back and fell over the armchair.
With a loud crash, accompanied by a cry of pain, he hit the floor.
Perhaps I should have felt bad about bringing down a man in his sixties, but I didn’t feel a single pang of guilt. In that moment, I was just as ruthless and cold as the man at my feet. He didn’t deserve my pity. With satisfaction, I noticed that he had tears in his eyes.
“I hope you rot in hell,” I said coldly, turning away.
With my fists clenched, I left my parents’ penthouse and went back to my own flat.
The door slammed shut behind me with a loud bang.
I was shaking all over. Without stopping, I marched into the bathroom to get out of my sweaty running gear, but my reflection in the mirror above the basin made me freeze.
Not because of my flushed cheek. No, it was the expression in my eyes—his eyes.
It was as if he were still standing in front of me, only a younger version.
In my own eyes, I recognised the same ice-cold contempt he had levelled at me.
There was no compassion in them, no pity. Only satisfaction at having hurt him.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
I stared at my hands. Without thinking, without even a flicker of hesitation, I had let my hatred and contempt get the better of me and had shoved him. A cold shiver ran down my spine. I’d pushed him—and taken pleasure in his tears. What kind of person enjoyed another’s suffering?
The answer was obvious: a bad one.
Over the past few months, I had tried so hard to be better, to become a good person, but I hadn’t succeeded.
A good person didn’t delight in someone else’s pain.
Yet I had enjoyed his, just as he had once enjoyed mine.
For years, I had tried to become someone he would hate, but in my effort not to be like him, I had inadvertently become just that.
Ruthless.
Overbearing.
Arrogant.
A fucking self-fulfilling prophecy.
People had often told me how similar my dad and I were, even my mum.
I’d always hated hearing it, but perhaps they’d all seen what I’d refused to face: I really was like him.
After today, there was no denying it. Because if I was honest, I hoped he was in pain right now too—just like my mum, just like me, just like this whole family.
If we had to suffer, he should suffer too.
Screw my dad.
Screw his lies.
Screw this life.
Screw everything.
I pushed away from the sink, but instead of stepping into the shower to rinse off the sweat, I headed to the kitchen and went straight for a cupboard I hadn’t touched in months.
In it were two dozen bottles with colourful labels, all of them holding strong alcohol.
Without checking which one I’d picked, I twisted off the cap and took a swig.
The alcohol burned like fire down my throat, but it also scorched the pain from my body and the misery from my soul.
Until all that was left was a pleasant numbness.