Chapter 31
The Cat’s Out of the Bag: Henry Darlington’s McDonald’s Date Is a Hotel Employee!
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Kate
I wasn’t in the mood to talk after Rose’s abrupt departure, and George seemed to feel the same way.
When Rakesh excused himself, presumably to sneak a smoke in his office, I pulled out my phone to take a closer look at The Blackroom.
The blog published regular posts about the hotel, which ranged from anonymous interviews and updates on the ongoing lawsuit, to old stories that had faded into obscurity.
One article covered an assault charge that had been filed against Richard Darlington twenty years ago.
Another was about a conspicuous black eye that Henry’s mum had attempted to conceal under a thick layer of makeup several years ago.
Even back then, suspicion had fallen on Richard.
It was a mystery to me how the blog could have escaped my notice until now.
There were dozens of comments beneath each post, and it even had its own hashtag—#theblackroom—which people used on social media.
Whoever ran this blog had clearly invested a great deal of time and effort in portraying Richard in the worst possible light.
Each word dripped with hatred and contempt, sparking curiosity about who was behind the blog.
In the comments, people speculated that the blog might have been started by some of the women who had filed assault charges against Richard but hadn’t joined the lawsuit for whatever reason.
It seemed plausible, especially since most of the allegations came from women who had worked for the hotel at some point.
Which would explain the detailed insider knowledge.
Did Henry know the blog existed? I decided to talk to him about it when I got the chance, and put my phone away to get to work.
Just as I stepped out into the corridor, I heard Giulia call my name. “Kate?”
I glanced up. “Yes?”
“Grace has just called in sick. I need someone to cover the private floor. Could you take care of it? No one else is available right now.” Giulia asked, but it wasn’t really a question so much as an order.
She held out the golden ID card expectantly.
Room attendants needed the card to be granted access to the family’s private quarters, which Grace was usually assigned to.
She had to return the card at the end of every shift to prevent it from being misused.
“OK. But I’ve never done it alone.”
“You’ll manage. And don’t worry, Mrs. Darlington is at brunch with her friends, and Mr. Darlington is in a meeting with his lawyers.”
“What about Ethan?”
“He’s probably nursing a hangover in some lecture. But what do I know?” Giulia shrugged. “If you run into any problems, you know where to find me.”
I nodded and headed off. In the lift, I sent Grace a quick get-well-soon message, and she wrote back straightaway, assuring me it was just period cramps and she’d be fine by tomorrow.
After retrieving the cleaning trolley from the housekeeping room on the top floor, I decided to start with the penthouse belonging to Henry’s parents before they returned.
So far, I hadn’t run into either of them, and after everything I’d heard—and what I’d just read on The Blackroom—I had no desire to change that.
The Darlingtons’ penthouse apartment was enormous, even bigger than Henry’s, and surprisingly cosy.
Crowded bookshelves lined the walls, a large corner sofa was adorned with an abundance of cushions, and colourful floral arrangements brightened up the space.
The decorative houseplants and statues had presumably been picked out by Henry’s mum or an interior designer—I couldn’t for the life of me picture his dad browsing antique shops or designer furniture shops for them.
The walls were decorated with family photos from a variety of locations, according to the small plaques on the frames: St. Moritz, 2006; Bora Bora, 2007; Venice, 2007; Shanghai, 2008.
Even though I was surrounded by the Darlington family’s luxury on a daily basis, I sometimes forgot how wealthy Henry was, because it didn’t matter when we were together.
But small reminders like these photos brought his money into sharp focus, hammering home the fact that our worlds were millions of pounds apart.
I had never set foot in any of these places and probably never would.
Meanwhile, Henry had visited them all before he’d even turned ten, without his family having to think twice about the cost. For him, it was normal. For me, it was unimaginable.
Logan wasn’t in any of the photos. It was as though he had been erased from the Darlington family history. The most recent photo was taken in 2019 and showed Ethan, around thirteen, with a younger, less exhausted-looking Henry.
“Those photos won’t dust themselves.”
I jumped and whirled around to see Amanda Darlington standing in the doorway. My street instincts were clearly failing me—I hadn’t even heard the door unlock.
She stepped inside and removed her coat, revealing an outfit that others would have worn to a gala rather than a brunch. Her blond hair was shoulder length, and her gold jewellery gleamed under the overhead light.
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, and went back to my cleaning trolley before Mrs. Darlington noticed that I hadn’t even been holding a duster.
Mrs. Darlington looked good—too young to have a son in his mid-twenties. Perhaps she’d had some cosmetic work. If so, it was expertly done. Her face looked natural, with fine lines around her eyes and on her forehead, but they weren’t as deep as one would expect in a woman over fifty.
“You’re the girl from the photos.”
I nodded.
She looked me up and down as if I were an insect—a pest in her beautiful apartment. I wished I had checked myself in the mirror before I’d come. “I was wondering when I’d finally meet you.”
She made it sound as if she hadn’t had plenty of opportunities to find me in the hotel over the past few weeks—she could have found out my room number at reception.
But Mrs. Darlington was presumably not someone who chased people—she waited until they came to her.
And here I was. I wasn’t sure what she wanted to hear, so I kept my mouth shut and subjected myself to her scrutiny.
Ethan and Henry took after their father—I couldn’t see much of Mrs. Darlington in them.
“Are you sleeping with my son?” she asked suddenly.
I almost choked on my own saliva. “No,” I croaked.
Mrs. Darlington tilted her head and examined me impassively. “Are you sure? He seems pretty besotted with you.”
“We . . . We’re just friends,” I stuttered, but it didn’t feel quite right. If he was just a friend, I wouldn’t have butterflies in my stomach every time I saw him.
“But you like him?”
It seemed like a trick question. If I said no, it would be a lie. If I said yes, she’d probably think I had lied before.
I hesitated and considered my words. “Your son is very good to me. He got me this job, and has given me one of the rooms here until I find my own apartment.” Not that I was actively looking.
Not yet. I needed a second job first. The three-hundred-pound wage I received from The Darlington wouldn’t even get me a shabby studio apartment in London.
Mrs. Darlington’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at my last words.
Could it be she hadn’t known I was living at the hotel?
But she didn’t comment on it. Instead, she approached me with measured steps, stopping directly across from me on the other side of the cleaning trolley.
She was tall and slender, and towered several centimetres above me.
“Henry is a real gem,” she replied, wiping the surprise from her face in a bid to restore her composure.
“He’s a good person—sometimes too good. So good, in fact, that I see it as my duty to make sure no one takes advantage of him.
Henry likes you, Miss Hamilton,” she added, reading my name from the badge pinned to my chest. “But I doubt he’s thinking with his head when it comes to you.
So let me make one thing clear: I’m keeping an eye on you.
I won’t stand by and let you use my son or damage his reputation.
He may be having fun with you right now, but don’t get too comfy.
Your kind will never truly belong with someone like him. ”
Stunned and unsure how to respond, I stared at Mrs. Darlington. For a moment, the room was so silent that I could hear the wind blowing against the windowpane. Then she smiled, so sickly sweet that it felt like a trap meant to ensnare an insect like me.
“Get back to work,” she said before turning on her heel. With her head held high, she marched into the bedroom.
I stood rooted to the spot, trying to process Mrs. Darlington’s words and what they implied.
Only after the door had closed behind her did I get back to work.
I cleaned the penthouse quickly and less thoroughly than I should have done, before slipping quietly into the corridor without saying goodbye.
Mrs. Darlington’s words lingered. Was I using Henry?
The only thing I’d ever asked him for was the four thousand pounds to get Randell off my back, but I hadn’t known Henry back then, and I hadn’t asked him for anything since.
The room, my job, and the phone—he’d given it all to me of his own free will.
But his mum and the others didn’t know that, of course.
Did they all think I was taking advantage of him?
I hadn’t considered it before, but for some reason, I hated the idea that people might think I only liked Henry because he had nice things to offer me.
It wasn’t true. Even if he threw me out of the hotel, fired me, and asked for his phone back, it wouldn’t change the fact that I liked spending time with him.