1
DOMINIC
“Where the fuckingfuck is that fucking wanker?”
The furious voice drifts down the hallway to my office, that very familiar Yorkshire accent meeting my ears, and I sigh heavily.
I should have known this day was going to be a wash. Cold, rainy, two injured players, and the loss from three days ago looming over the club. I should have stayed at home. And now, with that angry voice moving closer to my office, I know this day is only going to get worse.
What the bloody hell has he done now?
The door flies open, and in a flurry of long dark hair and tan coat, my enraged daughter-in-law makes her entrance, followed closely by my assistant. Gordon looks like he’s going to have a heart attack, his face bright red and the veins in his temples threatening to burst.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” he splutters, holding up his hands as Mia rounds on him.
“What you apologising to him for?” She snaps, before turning back to me and striding to the edge of my desk. “Where is he?”
“Where’s who, Mia?”
“Oh fuck you, Dominic. Where is he?”
My relationship with my daughter-in-law was never a good one, which was partially my fault. I’d never put in the effort to really get to know her, too busy with the club and investors, and enough romantic entanglements that I should have been ashamed of myself. Our relationship was polite, but cursory, perhaps even bordering on frigid.
Her relationship with my son was probably even worse. And that, too, was partially my fault.
I get to my feet, tucking my hands into the pockets of my trousers. “Mia, I need you to-”
“If you tell me to calm down, I swear to god almighty I will tear your fucking eyes out, do you hear me?”
I believe her, too. “Why don’t you tell me what’s happened?”
Mia’s head jerks over her shoulder. “Get out,” she barks at Gordon, who backs out of the room so quickly I’m worried he’s going to hurt himself. She waits until Gordon’s gone before turning back to me, folding her arms over her chest. “I just want to know if you knew.”
“Knew what, Mia?”
“About the dirty slut he’s shagging.”
My stomach drops. My idiot son. My fucking foolish, idiot son. “Are you sure?”
Mia opens the tan leather handbag under her arm and tears out something red, lacy and flimsy, which she flings onto my desk. “I bloody am sure.” She darts a long fingernail at the red garments. “Found those in my drawer. The bastard had the audacity to put his slag’s underwear out with my fucking washing.”
I run a hand over my face. “Jesus Christ.”
Mia and Archie’s relationship had been a source of fascination and concern for everyone close to them since the moment Archie had announced he’d found The One working the makeup counter at Harrod’s seven years ago. Their whirlwindromance - a full two months between meeting and the lavish Italian beach wedding - had been the stuff the fans and the media dreamed of.
But it had quickly descended into a whole lot of less-than-paradise. They were both hot-headed, and young. Public rows, blurry photos of arguments over restaurant tables, and Mia’s absence at awards ceremonies, saw their relationship picked apart, closely watched by the gossip rags that were aching for the next juicy bit of news about Arlington’s star player and his beautiful, angry bride. But after every public screaming match, there was the Making Up. They’d be snapped again, holding hands and smiling, kissing for the cameras, declaring they were happier than ever. A front as it turned out. More than evident as I look down at the red pile of lace in front of me.
I should have stayed in bed.
“Are you sure they’re not maybe a present he’s bought for you, and just not told you about?” I ask, hoping that maybe, just maybe my son isn’tthatfucking stupid and deceitful.
Mia snatches a scrap of red lace off the desk and holds it to her chest. “Does it bloody look like this was meant for my tits?”
The bra looks like it could probably hold Mia’s head. Whoever it belongs to is either naturally blessed, or knows an excellent plastic surgeon. Definitely not Mia Brookes, who made it onto billboards wearing Levis and Calvin Klein underwear with her androgynous, permanently pissed off look.
“I’m so sorry, Mia.”
“I don’t give a fuck what you are, and I certainly don’t need your apologies. I just want to know where he is.” Mia crosses her arms over her chest. “He’s not come home since training yesterday. And nobody knows where he is, apparently. So again, is he here and you’re just hiding him because you know your son is a fucking wanker?”
