Page 77 of Ethan & Grace

“You can let go,” I whispered. “I’ve got you.”

As if Ethan had been waiting for those words, for my permission, the dam burst. He began to cry in my arms. I felt his sobs against my throat, his tears on my skin. It broke my heart, but at the same time, I saw a truth in Ethan’s pain: Even broken things could be beautiful.

I had believed I couldn’t give him my heart because it was too broken, but his was just as shattered. In a different way, and perhaps even a little more, but I wanted it anyway. As hard as I had fought against my feelings, I could no longer deny it: I wanted Ethan Darlington to give me his broken, shattered heart so I could repair it and keep it safe for him.

28

Enough of the lies! Richard Darlington is innocent.

Those sluts are just jealous. #FreeDarlington #NotAllMen

Online comment by MAGA_Guy77

Ethan

Hours later, my throat still felt raw, as if my words and tears had sliced it like razor blades. I had only ever shared what I’d just told Grace with my mum. And James, at boarding school a few years ago—nightmares had woken me in cold sweats and kept me up for nights on end, which had been hard to hide from him. Since then, I hadn’t spoken to anyone about it. And I’d done everything I could to avoid thinking about this part of my past.

Some days it had been incredibly hard, while others, it was almost shockingly easy. My childhood was a patchwork quilt of memory gaps. I had read online that this could be a protective mechanism of the brain, because I hadn’t experienced the things that children were supposed to experience in childhood. Instead of comfort, love, and security, there had been only severity, expectations, and disappointment. I still found it hard to accept just how much this man, whom I should really call my torturer rather than my dad, had shaped and twisted me.

But now Grace had made me feel anything but broken. In her arms, for the first time in a long while, I’d let myself feel the pain instead of pushing it away. Which was what I’d done all those years before, partly because I’d refused to let my dad continue to have that kind of power over me; partly because I hadn’t wanted to disappoint him with my weakness. It made no sense, but that was the power he still had over me. Because of him, I’d been trapped in a vicious cycle I couldn’t escape for far too long. For years, I hadn’t seen a way out. I hadn’t even believed one existed. But maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe there was a way out after all.

I looked at the woman sleeping beside me. My hand rested on her stomach, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her breath. Her blond hair was spread across the pillow, and her face was turned towards me, completely at peace. Watching her was calming, and yet I still couldn’t sleep. Lying in her arms, I had surrendered to the pain. I had allowed myself to feel, and now I had to deal with the consequences: my memories.

A cruel film played out in my head. I thought about all the times I hadn’t lived up to my dad’s expectations. I thought about his blows, about the pain. And about my tears, which he’d seen as proof of my weakness. In the past, I would have resorted to booze like my mum or thrown myself into the party scene to escape my spiralling thoughts, but those days were over. I didn’t want to go through life feeling numb anymore, because that was exactly what my dad had always wanted: power.

Power over me.

Power over my body.

Power over my thoughts.

I refused to give him that victory. I only had this one life, and it was mine. I was going to live it the way I wanted, and what I wanted was to be with Grace. It probably wouldn’t be easy, considering our history and the fact that my dad was likely covering for the person who had killed her twin sister. My mum would lose her shit if she found out I was involved with a hotel employee, just like Henry had been. But I didn’t care, because what I had with Grace felt real. She touched something deep inside me. I didn’t just want to know her body; I wanted to know her heart and soul. And I wanted her to know me just as fully, inside and out. Because after tonight, there was no denying it anymore: I was falling in love with Grace Claymore.

The Blackroom

Richard Darlington is gaining support. According to the latest polls, more and more people (70% of men, 30% of women) are convinced of Darlington’s innocence. Yes, that’s right. Despite the serious allegations made against him, an increasing number of voices are claiming that Richard is the real victim here. This opinion has been shaped by numerous pro-Darlington articles published recently, as well as by people like Cabinet Member Alistair Eddington, who has spoken out in Darlington’s defence over the past few weeks, influencing public opinion.

Richard Darlington must not be portrayed as a victim! Not only is this perspective incomprehensible—it’s dangerous. It twists subjective opinions into supposed facts and silences the voices of the real victims. We must not be blindsided by this manipulation!

Beyond that, we cannot allow Darlington and his supporters to continue controlling the narrative. We must speak out loudly and clearly for justice. And so The Blackroom is once again calling for a demonstration in front of The Darlington. Gather outside the hotel tomorrow at 4:00 p.m.; bring your signs and whistles.

Be loud. Be strong. Be brave!

29

Donations to Assuage Guilt: How Frederick Beaumont Cleans Up His Image While His Company Destroys Oceans

Old Guardian headline

Grace

The Tube doors slid open, and I squeezed myself into a carriage with all the other commuters on their way home. The air inside was warm and stuffy, and even though summer was still a long way off, it smelled unpleasantly of sweat. The train started moving with a jolt. I held on to a pole with my right hand and pulled my phone from my coat pocket with my left before opening one of the bookmarks I’d saved in my browser. With the poor reception underground, it took a while for the page to load.

It was an old news article about Frederick Beaumont. I wanted to familiarise myself with him—know thine enemy. He was one of the five main suspects on Ethan’s and my list.

Beneath the article’s headline was a photo of Beaumont. It showed an older man with grey hair. He wore glasses and looked earnestly into the camera, as if owning a company worth billions was no smiling matter. I was fairly certain I’d seen him at The Darlington before, though perhaps I was confusing him with one of the other older white men with thinning hair who swanned in and out of the hotel every day.

I read through the article. It was mildly interesting, but not the slightest bit revealing. Frederick was a perfectly ordinary man, or at least as ordinary as a billionaire with a wife and three kids could be. He liked football and supposedly had a soft spot for oceans. He donated a fortune every year to organisations protecting coral reefs. Activists, however, accused him of trying to buy his way out of his guilt, since his company was responsible for dumping a whole lot of waste into the seas.