Page 95 of Ethan & Grace

I unfortunately couldn’t get onto The Darlington’s private floor without the golden key card, and a queue had formed at reception. Some guests stood there with packed suitcases, others without, but all of them looked agitated, even though Richard Darlington assaulting women was hardly new. Only now it was no longer a matter of word against word. It was his word against video evidence.

I decided to look for Madelyn, who covered for me on my days off and would have got the key card from Giulia this morning. I found her on the second floor, and after a bit of back-and-forth, I finally persuaded her to hand over the card, even though she wasn’t technically allowed to.

I got into the lift again and pressed the button for the private floor. But when the melodic chime announced my arrival and the doors slid open, I froze. I was looking straight into Mr. Darlington’s icy blue eyes.

His face was a vision of misery and anguish. There was no trace of his usual arrogance. For a moment, I wondered if he might actually be ashamed or possessed something like a conscience. But then I noticed his left arm hanging limply by his side. He gripped it with his right hand, as if it were hurting him.

“Get out of my way,” he snapped.

I was more than happy to comply. I stepped out of the lift and walked along the corridor without looking back. When I reached Ethan’s flat, I scanned the key card and let myself in.

“Ethan?”

No reply.

He wasn’t in the living room, but one of the kitchen cupboards was open. The one where he kept the alcohol. The uneasy feeling in my stomach intensified, becoming heavy.

“Ethan?!”

No reply.

I took out my phone and called him. As it rang in my ear, another ring answered from the bedroom. I followed the sound into the master bathroom.

Ethan’s phone lay on the edge of the sink. A second later, I saw him. He was crouched on the floor with only a towel wrapped around his waist. His skin and hair were still dripping, as if the shower had drained him of all strength.

On the tiles next to him stood a bottle filled with a caramel-coloured liquid. I couldn’t make out the label, but it didn’t take a genius to know it was something strong.

I ended the call, and the ringing stopped.

“Hey.”

Ethan looked up. His eyes were red and swollen, with dark damp lashes. He had clearly been crying, but what worried me more was his swollen cheek.

“Hey.” His voice sounded weak.

“Why didn’t you answer my calls? I was worried.”

He didn’t respond.

I let the bag slip from my shoulder. Crouching down beside him, I picked up the bottle: bourbon. I screwed the lid back on and placed it out of his reach. Even though he had just showered, I could smell the alcohol on him. My chest tightened. That sharp smell, combined with the way he’d ignored me so coldly and without explanation, reminded me of the old, selfish Ethan.

“What happened to your cheek?”

He hesitated before replying. “My dad hit me.”

The weight in my stomach grew even heavier. Suddenly, it all made sense.

“And I shoved him,” Ethan continued.

“Did you break his arm?”

He looked at me. “What makes you say that?”

“I just ran into him in the corridor, and it looked like it was hurt.”

“Fuck,” Ethan cursed, reaching for the bourbon again, but I was quicker. I pushed the bottle behind my back, where it was out of his reach unless he stood up or moved me aside. “Give it to me!”

“No,” I said firmly. I understood why he felt the need to get drunk. Mr. Darlington had hit him, just like he used to when Ethan was a child, and it must have set off a spiral of memories. For a long time, alcohol, parties, and drugs had been Ethan’s way of coping. No wonder he thought falling back into that pattern would help him deal with his feelings. But he’d told me himself that he didn’t want to be that person anymore, and I saw it as my duty to protect him from himself. Even if that made him angry with me.