William took a sip of champagne to conceal his surprise. How could Adathan know he’d only been chatting with Oliver all this time? William had been careful to keep his screen out of sight. A lucky guess?
“You haven’t sent my picture to anyone else,” Adathan said, answering William’s silent question.
Now would be a bad moment for William to play poker; his thoughts were written all over his face. Still, he felt a hint ofpride at the fact that Adathan knew he wouldn’t show anyone his picture without telling him. “Are you insinuating I don’t have many friends?” he said in a teasing voice.
Adathan’s smile softened. “I’m insinuating he’s very important to you.”
“He is,” William said, grabbing a pecan tartlet. Oliver was much more than that. He was irreplaceable.
William took a bite and closed his eyes as the distinct taste of maple syrup washed over his tongue. The buttery crust and smooth filling melted in his mouth as he chewed the fresh pecans slowly, mindfully—savoring the experience to the fullest. He’d never be able to enjoy the cheap store-bought tartlets again.
It had always been like this. Every time he had a taste of luxury, he returned to his modest one-bedroom apartment with deep frustration that lingered for weeks. If only he’d won the second prize, he could have sold the car and used some of the extra cash to move to a bigger place. It would have allowed Adathan to have his own bedroom...
William nearly face-palmed at his idiocy. Adathan wouldn’t be here if William hadn’t won the grand prize. In fact, Richard would have exchanged him for Gabriel, and Eden Serviteurs would have harvested his organs. In comparison, having to sleep on William’s sofa until he had the means to move out wasn’t such an awful sacrifice.
Still, wasn’t Adathan expecting to live in an opulent home? Broke dudes like William didn’t own Serviteurs—they couldn’t afford them. Adathan had been trained to serve rich people. Could he truly be happy in the mediocre life William had to offer?
“You can tell me,” Adathan said.
William shook himself out of his musings in time to see Adathan empty his champagne flute. Just how long had he been zoned out?
“Tell you what?” William asked before shoving the rest of the tartlet into his mouth.
“What’s troubling you.”
William couldn’t tell a convincing lie right now. He also had neither the desire nor the energy to discuss what awaited Adathan at home. It wasn’t the only thing weighing on him, though.
The sharp pain William had felt earlier pierced his heart again. The mere thought of going to Oliver’s place and finding his lifeless body made him break into a cold sweat. Knowing Oliver, he would have left him a letter, thanking him for everything and asking him to stay strong—as if it were that simple.
“Oliver,” William began, his throat tightening around his best friend’s name. Bringing him up was a terrible idea, but he couldn’t stop. The words spilled out without his permission. “He’s not doing so well.”
Adathan set his spoon down and rested his hand on William’s.
William stared at the bandages he’d wrapped around Adathan’s fingers, struggling to find what to say next. He’d rarely opened up to anyone—Oliver being a notable exception because the son of a bitch had always known how to pry him wide open. It was as if he possessed the key to William’s soul.
William considered himself lucky to have him, but there was a downside to only having one friend. Who was he supposed to talk to when he was concerned about that one friend’s well-being?
Certainly not a stranger—even less so a slave.
William took a slow, silent breath, his inner voice pressing him to change the subject, but he found himself unable to. Heavy sorrow had built up inside him, demanding to be let out.
Fuck it.
Adathan was offering to listen, so why refuse? Because imaginary people would mock William for drawing comfort from someone who only pretended to care?
Fuck them.
“He was in a car accident about a year ago,” William said hoarsely. “Drunk driver. The piece of shit escaped justice by dying on impact.”
He gritted his teeth as all too familiar fury rose in his chest. “Oliver, he... It’s a miracle he survived...” He trailed off, his gaze growing unfocused as the pressing voice in his head grew more insistent. His nails dug into his palm as he balled his free hand into a fist, the pain helping him stay grounded in the present.
“He lost his right eye and forearm, and—” His voice broke, his fury mixing with suffocating despair. Oliver used to draw smiles from nearly anyone just by existing in their vicinity. Now, people either stared, averted their gazes, or gave him a weak smile weighed down by a mixture of repulsion and pity.
“The right half of his face”—William gestured at his own head—“it’s all...” He squeezed his eyes shut, but two stubborn tears spilled out anyway.
“I’m so sorry,” Adathan murmured as he stroked William’s hand. “It must be hard for you to—”
William huffed. “Not nearly as hard as it is for him.”
