He'd barely crossed the threshold before the old unease stirred, the same prickle at the base of his neck that rose every time he stepped through the door. This was why he'd spent so much of his childhood at Crispin's house, why Ophelia's kitchen, with its smell of coffee and Sunday roast had felt more like home than this marble mausoleum.
The foyer's chandelier cast light in every direction, its cascading crystals scattering brilliance across the spotless marble floors on the winter evening. Large period windows flooded the rooms with light during the day. The ceilings were so high that they made people feel small. Dorian often felt it was a house designed for giants.
Through the glass patio doors, the pool shimmered a perfect cerulean under the setting sun. It lay waiting, heated, vast, and untouched. He hadn't gone near it in years. Some memories were better locked away.
The itch started between his shoulder blades again-sharp, unreachable, and persistent. A reminder that his mind was already working against him here. This is why he made Rune endure these evenings with him. If he had to suffer, she had to do the same.
He turned to the butler. "Close the shutters ."
Gareth rushed to do his bidding.
His mother's voice came from behind him. "It's a nice evening, Dorian. Let the light in."
"Close them," he repeated as if she had not spoken.
The sound of the shutters gliding across the glass dulled the glint of blue beyond, and only then did he follow the butler into the minor dining room-minor in name only, with seating for eight. The larger one, rarely used, could seat three times that.
Laura, tall and elegant, her burgundy sheath dress immaculate, was already seated, her smile as polished as the silverware. Years of expensive skin care and surgical "maintenance" had kept her looking closer to Dorian's age than her fifty-five years. Tonight, however, in the lamplight, the thick layers of makeup couldn't quite hide the fine lines beneath.
They dined alone. The walls held a tasteful scattering of posed photographs – himself as a boy, his late father, his mother in her boardroom armour.
Laura's chatter began the way it always did – smooth, brittle, and barbed. It started with solicitous enquiries about his health. Then, about appearances and how he should not have supported Crispin against his family. Then, like clockwork, they moved on to the company and his duty. Then onto his "philandering ways." He let her run with it, his mind elsewhere entirely.
Where was Rune? With Eli, almost certainly. What were they talking about? Was it just talk? Was he touching her?
"-for heaven's sake, Dorian, it's time to marry a suitable girl," she was droning on. "Look at Crispin's behaviour. Dreadful. Simply dreadful. His poor mother. You should be thinking about an heir-"
He tuned back in just enough to catch the flicker of irritation in her eyes when she realised she didn't have his attention. "Why, Mother?" he asked, voice smooth but cold. "Why should I have children? Have you ever cared for yours?"
Her mouth thinned, but she didn't rise to the bait.
He leaned forward, his tone casual as he straightened his knife and fork. "Between the little problem you had with pills, and how much easier it was to carry on with your many affairs after Father died, I can't imagine you'd recommend parenthood to anyone. Remember what it did to your figure? I do."
A shadow crossed her face, but she smoothed her napkin and pressed on about the company, how she was "holding the fort" while he wasted his time on side ventures.
"Mum, what you want is more control over your only son," he interrupted evenly. "And the 'hobby,' as you call it, is worth more than a billion."
"As for my philandering," he added with a glint of derision, "I learned from the master, you and dear ol'daddy."
Her lips parted, but before she could answer, his phone buzzed with a message from his PI.
"I have some urgent business," he said, rising.
"Dorian, enough is enough. You need to let go of this silly-"
"I'll see you later, Mother." The last word was laced with sarcasm as he brushed an air kiss against her stiff cheek without actually making contact. The corners of his lips turned down as he took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his lips thoroughly right in front of her before walking out.
In the car, while he wiped his fingers and nails with antibacterial wipes, he took the call. He raised the screen between himself and the driver.
The PI's voice was brisk. "Eli met her at a small coffee shop called the Seed Café. She had a bag with her. They talked, hugged. He put her shawl around her shoulders, adjusted her hat. They looked...cozy. It was too loud to hear anything."
The itch between his shoulder blades flared, sharp enough to make him shift in his seat.
"Alright. Where did she go from there?"
"I followed Eli like you asked me to. But I caught something about her going home."
"Fine." He ended the call abruptly and then pressed his well-shaped fingers to his temples.
