Chapter 37
Thirty-Seven
“Elliot? What’re you doing here?”
“Mr Tell was called to a meeting so was unable to pick you up himself. I’m to take you to him.”
“Not to Harrington?” I asked, remembering my little face-off with a certain pinch faced bitch whom I’d rather avoid at all costs.
“No, Miss, to The Carlton. He’s working from his office there.”
After this morning I wasn’t sure I wanted to see him. I ran through in my head what would happen if I didn’t go. He would wait until I was alone, find me, and scramble my thoughts. I could either go now, or I could go later. As usual, all roads led to Alfie Tell.
“Alright, but do you mind if I ride up front with you? It’s awkward sitting in the back.”
Elliot looked at me, his eyebrows raised slightly. “Of course, Miss.” He led me to the passenger side and I climbed in.
“Some music?”
“Vivaldi, please,” I said, not missing the approving look he gave me.
I felt safe with Elliot. His protective aura cast an umbrella over me that allowed me to relax into the seat and sift through my jarring thoughts.
It was strange that this man, with thickly calloused knuckles, a faint scar across his throat, and a nose that looked like it had been broken many times, could make anyone feel safe, and yet he did.
An hour later I stepped into the lift at The Carlton, gliding up to the presidential suite with a hint of trepidation. After this morning I wasn’t sure what version of Alfie I was going to find.
I dumped my bag on the foyer table and stopped for a moment to inhale the vase of fresh bleeding hearts. The bright pink buds looked sorely out of place in the sea of cream and glass, yet the room seemed to need their colour.
I went upstairs, heading straight for Alfie’s office. I was surprised to find the door closed. I opened it without knocking and instantly wished I hadn’t. Alfie was sitting behind his desk, and leaning over him, much too close for my liking, was Angie.
She straightened and folded her arms, her face smeared with that sneer that I was sure had been painted on at birth. Alfie looked stern, but beyond that he was a mask of impenetrability.
“Lola, would you wait downstairs please?” It wasn’t a request, it was an order. His voice was cold and distant. That wasn’t unusual for him, but this time he was too distant. Something didn’t feel right. He looked haunted, as if he had ghosts whispering in his ears.
“Are you alright?” I hovered in the doorway like an unwanted third wheel. I felt her eyes on me, the intruder in my den, but I kept my focus on Alfie. What’s wrong with him?
“I’m working, Lola. Wait downstairs.”
Angie barely suppressed a snicker and I barely suppressed the urge to drag her around the room by her hair.
I wanted to shake this awful version of Alfie and scream at him to snap out of it, but I knew it would be useless.
Dejected and sick with worry, I shut the door and left them to their meeting.
Downstairs, I paced, unsure what to do.
What the hell is his problem? That was a question that plagued me so often.
What was his problem? The Alfie Tell in that awful article I’d read weeks ago was nothing like the half-dead man sitting upstairs with that witch.
I wasn’t sure which version of him I preferred.
All I was sure of was that the version sitting upstairs did not look alright.
Grabbing my phone from my bag, I stomped out onto the balcony and slammed the door behind me.
I hated the feeling of being under the same roof as Alfie and Angie.
I was tempted to leave, but once again, I was stuck here without my van.
It occurred to me that Alfie had probably engineered that on purpose.
He knew that I couldn’t afford to pay for a taxi home.
I opened the browser on my phone, took a breath, and typed in ‘Alfie Tell.’ If I was going to make this work with Alfie, I needed to know more about him.
I was hit by a barrage of information, mostly about his work, his business awards, some old scandal articles that I definitely didn’t need to read any more about. None of that was interesting.
There were a few hits on his sister, Grace, so I opened one of those but it didn’t tell me anything useful. She was a socialite, beautiful of course, engaged to some software genius, 28 years old. Nothing useful.
I clicked off the article then froze, my thumb hovering over the keys.
I returned to the article and re-read it.
She was 28 years old. She was younger than Alfie.
I returned to the browser and typed in the title of that hideous article I’d read weeks ago and scrolled through it until I’d found what I wanted.
“ Alfie Tell, the second offspring of business tycoon Joseph Tell…” I paused and re-read it again.
“The second offspring.” The first time I’d read that I’d assumed that Grace must be the first offspring, but if she was younger than Alfie then she had to be the third… So who was the first?
I returned to the browser and continued my research. I found another series of articles, most of them about Alfie. Headline after headline from more than a decade ago, listing a hundred of his exploits.
Finally, I found a less reprehensible article around a decade old; “Alfie Tell named new CEO of Tell Ltd.” I clicked on the link and read closely, unsurprised by most of it.
It mentioned his father’s death—a heart attack some months before the article was written.
There was a picture of his parents, Joseph and Carolyn Tell.
My breath caught at the sight of them. It was a press shot for some event.
Her smile was soulless, her eyes cold, and though Alfie was dark and she was very fair, I could see where Alfie had gotten his beauty from.
Joseph looked nothing like Alfie, though I could see where Alfie had learned that impenetrable gaze.
I shivered. I felt intimidated just looking at them.
I scrolled down. What I was looking for was the missing sibling, the first offspring, and then, near the end of the article, I found it.
A picture of a young man who looked like an angelic version of Alfie—fair haired, deep blue eyes, open, charming smile.
My heart began to pound. I felt as though I were snooping, uncovering something Alfie didn’t want me to see.
“… The Tell Empire was originally intended for Joseph Tell’s eldest son, Charles. Unfortunately, the untimely and tragic death of the 26-year-old now means that the responsibility comes to rest on Joseph Tell’s younger, far less capable son, Alfie.
The younger Tell son, whose name has become synonymous in recent years with scandal and morally reprehensible behaviour, appeared to be a changed man during his press release this morning.
His band of compatriots - affectionately named as his ‘Tellers’ - were nowhere to be seen, and neither were the string of scantily clad women who seem to follow him wherever he goes.
He was sombre during his brief speech, confirming that at the tender age of 23, he would be taking the reins as head of the company. It would seem that his days as the head of the notorious Never Tell Club are a thing of the past.
Only time will tell us if he can stand up to the legacy left behind by not only his father, but his brother too. After all, it is no secret that his father had much higher hopes for Charles than his reckless younger son…”
The article went on, but I put my phone down, unable to read any more. I laid back in the lounge chair and closed my eyes, tears pricking at the lids.
Things were starting to make sense.
I had been through difficult times in my life but I hadn’t done it in the public eye.
I couldn’t imagine the pressure that Alfie had had to contend with.
He’d been the same age I was now. I just about managed to figure out what to have for breakfast, and he’d had to sit at the head of an international empire, having just lost his brother and father, with everyone expecting him to fail.
I couldn’t imagine how lonely that had been.
How many of his own dreams and desires had he put aside?
He’d wanted adventure and a good time, that’s what he’d said in the article I’d read weeks ago, but now all that was left was the man sitting upstairs, with a face of stone and a heart even colder, who spent day after day haunted by ghosts and living in their shadows.
But why had he never mentioned a brother? He’d told me about his father, why not Charles? I wanted to know more about how he died, but it felt too invasive to snoop about that. I needed him to confide in me himself.
I rubbed my eyes, feeling overwhelmed. The last time I’d read an article about him, I’d run away, but he hadn’t been mine then. He was now. Not theirs, but mine . And I wasn’t going to leave him like that.
Leaving my phone on the balcony, I returned inside.
I climbed the stairs, surprised that I wasn’t nervous.
I heard their voices as I walked down the hallway and once again, I let myself in without knocking.
Alfie looked up, his face the same haunted expression.
Angie looked at Alfie, waiting for him to evict me again, but I cut him off before he got the chance.
“Leave.”
Angie looked at me in shock. “Excuse me?” she spluttered, her eyes darting between me and Alfie.
“You heard what I said. Leave.” I dismissed her, turning my attention back to Alfie. He remained in his seat, his gaze never leaving me.
I looked ridiculous next to the immaculate Angie Carter. She wore Louboutins and I wore only my bare feet. I had nothing and she had everything, and yet it was me he was looking at.
When she realised that she’d been shut out and Alfie wasn’t going to evict me, she calmly collected her bag and coat.
She leaned down to kiss Alfie on the cheek but he turned his head slightly and she froze.
I almost felt sorry for her. She rose with a faux nonchalance.
The look on her face as she passed me was meant to kill, but once she was out of the room I didn’t spare her another thought.
Alfie remained silent, a stiff statue in front of me, and for a moment I felt lost. I didn’t have a plan. Beyond giving Angie the boot I had no idea what I was going to do. So I followed my instincts.
I crossed the room and rounded his desk, his eyes tracking me the whole time.
He turned in his chair to face me and I did the only thing that felt natural.
I climbed into his lap, straddling him. I cupped his perfect face, searching for the Alfie that I knew was in there, behind the mask he slipped on to deal with the rest of his life, the life that he’d never wanted, the life that suffocated him.
“Come back to me.” I stroked his cheek with the back of my fingers, using the lightest of touches and waiting for him to respond.
But he didn’t. He watched me guardedly, so unlike his usual self.
Once again, I did the only thing that felt natural.
I leaned down and kissed him softly, trying to express everything I felt in that small gesture.
He responded—only slightly, but he was there.
I pulled back and found his eyes warmer than before.
“Come back to me,” I whispered again, though it sounded more like a plea this time.
“Please.” I pressed my forehead to his, willing him back into life.
If the mask was tangible I would rip it right off him, but all I could do was hold him, coax him back to me.
The article had given me some insight, but there were still secrets buried deep within him.
Right now, I didn’t care about knowing them, I just wanted him back.
I almost whimpered with relief when I felt his hands on my waist, his touch light at first, caressing me. I gasped when he gripped me, lifted me, and laid me out on his desk. He loomed over me, his hands either side of me. I reached up and cupped his cheek.
“Hey.” I smiled. He was here. He’d come back to me. In a move so tender I couldn’t believe I’d really seen it, he nuzzled my hand, pressing his cheek into my palm, taking comfort from my touch. He sighed, his brows knitting together, his eyes shut tight as if he was in pain.
“Alfie.” His eyes opened, looking at me warily as if I might demand something of him like everything else in his life did.
“Just kiss me.” He sighed again, the tension leaving his body in a whoosh.
His shoulders relaxed, and he leaned down, pressing his full weight onto me.
His lips found mine and I welcomed him with everything I had, allowing his tongue into my mouth, encasing him with my arms. I felt between us and undid his trousers, guiding him to my opening.
Then my legs wrapped around his hips, encouraging him to move.
He began slowly, in small shallow thrusts. I groaned my approval as he picked up the pace. He buried his face in my neck and took me. I returned the favour, wrapping my hands in his hair and allowing myself, in all ways, to be taken. I was his. There was no help for me now.