Page 35 of Ethan & Grace

He snorted, but I could tell that he was secretly proud to have made me smile. The realisation stirred a strange, pleasant feeling in my stomach—not heat, just gentle warmth.

“But seriously—she really hated you on my behalf. You were a real jerk to me back then, and Amy couldn’t stand it. I had to do a lot of overtime thanks to all your parties, because you and your friends were apparently incapable of telling the difference between the floor and the bin.”

“I’m sorry.” His apology sounded sincere.

I waved it off. At the end of the day, it was my job. One I actually liked, all things considered. I had once thought of The Darlington as a stopgap for me, but I wasn’t so sure if that was still the case.

I tossed the sandwich wrapper into the bin attached to the cleaning trolley. “Amy wanted to be a doctor and work in cardiology like our dad. She was really smart and sensitive. It’s what her patients probably would have loved most about her. She always knew right away when something was wrong. It was like a sixth sense. A superpower she was born with. Even when I tried to hide my feelings from her, she knew when something was off. And then she’d get us ice cream and let me pour my heart out for hours.”

Ethan regarded me thoughtfully, saying nothing—just watching me with that piercing gaze of his. I wondered what was going through his head and whether I had maybe gone too far. He’d asked me to tell him something about Amy, not spill her entire life story.

I was about to apologise for my word dump, but he spoke first.

“I may not be Amy, but I have ears—and ice cream in the freezer.” He shrugged. “Well, protein ice cream. It’s not the tastiest, I’m afraid. But we could always get you good ice cream from the kitchen . . .”

His words hung in the air between us. I wasn’t sure how to respond. Was that an offer? An invitation? Or was he making fun of me? No, there was no trace of humour in his voice. He seemed serious, and above all, genuine. The warmth in my belly intensified uncomfortably. What was happening?

I jumped to my feet so abruptly that I felt dizzy for a moment, though I managed to shake it off quickly. “I have to work,” I announced, grabbing the cleaning trolley. It was the truth, yet it still sounded like an excuse.

I hurried off before Ethan could respond. He got up and followed me. I wasn’t sure if that made him a gentleman or a stalker—probably neither. What else was he supposed to do? Keep sitting in the corner at the end of the corridor?

I had initially planned to tackle his flat next, but now I pushed the cleaning trolley straight past his door. I needed a little distance to cool the strange warmth inside me. Finding Beelzebub attractive was one thing, but thinking he was kind was something else entirely.

“Grace?”

I felt my heart leap towards Ethan.

“Next time you don’t want to spend your break with the others, you’re welcome to come to me. The seats at my kitchen island are a lot more comfortable than this floor.”

The Blackroom

About a year ago, Miranda McCloud plucked up the courage to speak out. She was the first of many women to publicly accuse Richard Darlington, the owner of The Darlington, of sexual assault. More women, mostly former hotel employees, followed suit and filed charges against the hotelier.

Attempts at intimidation and out-of-court settlements led some women to withdraw their accusations and state that they no longer wished to pursue criminal charges against Darlington. The public prosecutor’s office and the Crown Prosecution Service subsequently dropped their investigations in these cases. However, alongside Miranda McCloud, both Chloe Lawrence and Amiyah Marsh stood by their allegations.

Following months of investigations and evidence-gathering, Richard Darlington will stand trial next week for the sexual abuse of these three women. We will, of course, be reporting on the case.

13

First Day of Trial: Richard Darlington to Appear in Court!

Daily Mail headline

Ethan

A storm of cameras greeted us outside the Old Bailey, London’s central criminal court. Today was the first day of my dad’s trial, which meant a frenzy of press coverage. The photographers fired their shutters relentlessly, and the reporters shouted themselves hoarse in the hope of getting a statement from my dad. He walked ahead of my mum and me with his three lawyers. Instead of looking ashamed, he smiled pleasantly into the cameras. Either he wasn’t aware of how serious the situation was, or sheer arrogance made him believe he would get away unscathed. Most likely, it was the latter.

I had read the indictment. The case was a little shaky, because my dad and his hangers-on had gone to great effort to make all evidence of his crimes disappear. But the things he’d overlooked were damning, as were his victims’ testimonies. I believed them. The only reason why I was here instead of skipping the trial like Henry was my mum. Because while my dad waved at the cameras as if he were walking down the red carpet, my mum had linked her arm through mine, head bowed and shoulders hunched. Her black outfit screamed funeral, and her oversized sunglasses concealed what her makeup couldn’t: her tear-swollen eyes. My dad’s total lack of shame made it all the more uncomfortable for my mum.

Two security guards opened the doors for us, and we left the throng of journalists behind. We were immediately enveloped in silence. I could almost hear my mum breathe a sigh of relief—but the hardest part was yet to come.

Boyd, Chawla, and Sandhu, my dad’s three lawyers, led us through the Grand Hall of the Old Bailey. It was intimidating and majestic, immediately instilling a sense of reverence. Even my dad had stopped smiling. The high, ornately decorated ceilings arched into domes, giving the space an almost sacred atmosphere. Stone sculptures flanked the corridors, and the floor was a mosaic of intricately laid tiles. We reached the courtroom, which, with its dark-wooden panelling and judge’s bench at the front, was no less impressive. Although proceedings weren’t due to start for another half hour, the public gallery was already full, and the press was there. The cameras kept clicking. While my dad and his lawyers took their seats at the front, my mum and I sat among the spectators in seats that had been reserved for us.

“Thanks for coming with me,” my mum whispered. She reached for my hand. Her fingers were clammy and trembling, and her breath smelled of wine, even though it wasn’t yet noon.

I gave a weak smile. “Of course. I won’t let you go through this alone.”

“I wish Henry were here too.” She glanced at the empty seat beside her. Until the very last minute, she had hoped he would change his mind and come with us today, but his relationship with our dad had been in ruins since their argument last year.