He smiled. “Thanks. You too, Kate. Look after yourself.”
I liked how he said my name. He made it sound soft and familiar despite his deep voice. As if we’d known each other for much longer than an hour. It made it even harder to leave, but I had no choice.
“I will,” I promised, turning away before the situation could become any more embarrassing.
I strode away, feeling Henry’s eyes on me. I didn’t turn back, afraid of what I might feel if I did. If I was being honest, I thought it was a shame I would probably never see Henry Darlington again.
The Blackroom
Rich. Beautiful. Popular. The Darlingtons! But who are the people behind the family name—a name worth billions?
Richard Darlington—The Tyrant
Old money and shrewd investments have made Richard (62) a billionaire, but a shadow hangs over his success. The path to wealth for the head of the family hasn’t always been entirely legitimate. His business practices are surrounded by ongoing controversies, including allegations of bribery, corporate espionage, and labour exploitation. Employees at the hotel where Richard lives with his wife report frequent mood swings, outbursts of anger, and gaslighting.
Amanda Darlington—The Trophy Wife
Richard’s wife, Amanda (52), has stood by her husband for almost thirty-three years. The former catalogue model met the billionaire, ten years her senior, when she was eighteen. They married when she was just nineteen. She has no authority within the hotel, playing a purely symbolic role at Richard’s side. She has not yet commented on the allegations made against her husband, but a divorce seems out of the question for Amanda. Did she already know about her husband’s transgressions? Is she letting herself be blinded by all that money? Or is she just another of her husband’s victims, trapped in a loveless marriage she can’t escape?
Henry Darlington—The Heir
Henry (26) is the eldest son. After the initial allegations against his father earlier this year, he was appointed CEO of The Darlington. But other than the occasional headline about his love life, Henry has stayed out of the limelight in recent years. Now he has been tasked with salvaging The Darlington’s reputation by playing up his spotless image. But how can he stand by a man who so recklessly destroys the lives of others with a clear conscience?
Logan Darlington—The Lost Son
Logan (24), the middle son, has been estranged from his parents for years. As a teenager, he was sent away to boarding school in France and distanced himself from the family upon his return. He now keeps to himself, comanaging The Meridian, a restaurant located in Covent Garden, alongside Maxton Prescott. Unsurprisingly, he has also not yet commented on the allegations against his father. He has refused to make a statement about his family for years. We ask ourselves, why?
Ethan Darlington—The Fuckboy
Ethan (20) is the youngest of the Darlington brothers. Expensive alcohol and loud parties are part and parcel of everyday life for him and his wealthy friends, and he leaves a trail of used condoms and broken hearts in his wake throughout London. Although he studies at Imperial College, it remains unclear whether he possesses the intellect or emotional maturity to fully grasp the accusations levelled against his father. The arrogant baby of the family considers himself invincible—but pride comes before a fall, as the saying goes.
9
London Rent Prices Shoot Through the Roof: New Record Highs Make Housing Unaffordable—Homelessness Rates Rise!
The Timesheadline
Kate
I’d promised myself I would never again set foot in the shabby housing area that had been my home for a year—yet here I was. This place held so many of my worst memories, most of which were associated with Randell. I’d lost count of how often I’d stood here, between the oak tree and Mrs. Smith’s bungalow with its heart-shaped letter box, putting off walking the last steps to the front door so I could avoid Randell for just a few moments longer.
I’d never understood what had drawn Mum to him. She’d been a stunning and charming woman, despite her problems. Randell, on the other hand, was ugly inside and out. His face was puffy from alcohol, and his skin was sallow and blotchy. But it was his sexism, racism, and uncontrolled rage that made him a monster. I could count on my fingers the number of days he hadn’t been drunk and raging. He’d always had a beer in his hand—or his belt, which he had used to beat respect and gratitude into me and my mum, afterhe’d taken us in and saved us from homelessness. His bouts of rage had mainly been targeted at my mum. In the weeks before her death, she had new bruises almost every day, and to avoid drawing attention to them, she had hardly left the bungalow.
A deep sorrow washed over me when I thought about how my mum’s life had ended in the same way it had begun. She’d had a tough childhood, growing up with a violent father who had beaten her too. It was why I’d never met my grandparents. Her crappy childhood was probably also the reason she’d never truly found her footing in life. Fear and depression had caused her to lose one job after another, and in the end, I’d had to drop out of school to support her financially. It hadn’t made a difference. We’d been evicted from our flat and had ended up at Randell’s place. She’d fallen in love, both with him and with the bittersweet numbness she felt when they took drugs together.
I missed her. Watching Randell and the drugs destroy her had broken my heart. But I couldn’t have saved her. I’d tried. I’dreallytried. I’d talked to her again and again. I’d begged her to leave Randell and had hidden her drugs. I’d even flushed them down the toilet once, which got me a good beating from Randell. My ears rang for days after that, and the hearing in my right ear had never fully recovered. But none of it had helped. A few weeks later, my mum had died of an overdose.
I let out a heavy sigh. My heart was racing, and I wanted nothing more than to turn and leave. But I had to be brave one last time and face that arsehole so I could give him his money. Then it would be over, and I would never have to see him again. The thought gave me the courage to start moving. The branches of the oak tree bent in the wind of a coming storm, and the leaves rustled like pom-poms cheering me on.
As I slowly made my way towards the dilapidated bungalow, I shoved my hand into the pocket of my leather jacket and toyed nervously with Henry’s business card, which was already pretty tatty. The facade of the building was yellowing and its windows dirty—they probably hadn’t been cleaned since I’d moved out almost a year ago. The fly screen was crooked in the window frame, and a bin bag buzzing with flies had been tossed right in front of the door, despite the bins being just a few steps away. Wrinkling my nose, I walked past the bag and knocked on the door. I desperately wanted to put this behind me.
“You can do this,” I muttered.
I heard the tinny sounds of Randell’s ancient television set, then footsteps. A moment later, he opened the door. He was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a Manchester United cap that my mum had given him for Christmas. My stomach tied itself in knots, and I suddenly wished I hadn’t come alone. But who could I have brought with me? Iwasalone.
Randell leaned against the doorframe. “Kate. What brings you here?”
“My debt.”
