She hesitated for a moment. Her heart still hadn’t quite decided what to do with itself after that kiss but she did not want to go to bed either. She knocked once—softly.
“Come in.”
She opened the door to find him sitting down by the window. He looked up, visibly surprised to see her.
“Penelope,” he said. “You have not slept?”
She stepped inside, folding her hands in front of her.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not at all,” he said, reaching for a glass of wine. “Would you like some?”
“Yes, thank you,” She hesitated at first, but then nodded. It would do her some good to get the edge off.
She took the seat across from his desk as he poured the wine, and it was only then that she noticed his state: his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow, his collar slightly open, and his hair, which was usually so neatly combed, looked as though he’d run his hands through it half a dozen times.
He looked tired and entirely unlike the composed version of himself that everyone else usually saw. She cleared her throat, accepting the glass as he passed it to her.
“Thank you.”
He nodded and moved behind his desk, but didn’t sit down. He leaned against it instead, wine in hand.
“You’ve just come from Odette’s room,” he said.
“I have.”
He didn’t ask what was said. Somehow, he already knew it wasn’t a happy conversation.
“She’s disappointed,” Penelope said softly. “She’s trying not to be unkind about it, but she is.”
“I know.”
“She doesn’t understand it,” Penelope continued. “I’m not sure I do either.”
“You don’t have to,” he said. It was a point that they would never see eye to eye on , perhaps.
“May I ask something?”
His brow lifted slightly.
She pressed on, fingers tightening slightly around the stem of her glass.
“What makes you so protective of everyone close to you?” she said. “Was it always like this?”
It was a question that had been swirling inside her mind after their little argument today. He didn’t answer right away. For a moment, she feared she’d overstepped. She dropped her gaze to her wine, ready to murmur an apology. But Alexander spoke again.
“My father.”
She looked up again.
“Your father?” she said. She had not expected him to bring him up again.
“He was… a very selfish man,” he said, “Manipulative. Brilliant at it, too. The sort who always knew exactly what to say, exactly how to twist things in his favor. Perhaps that has something to do with the way I react to things now.”
Penelope sat very still. She did not quite know what to say to him.
“He used me,” Alexander continued, “for leverage, for appearances and most of all, for convenience. He controlled everything: my tutors, my friends, the hours I slept, the way I spoke at table. Everything was a calculation. Everything about me was a tool to maintain his image.”
