Mornings were the only time of the day that really belonged to me. I usually worked out at my penthouse gym, but once a week, I fled from the hotel to the bouldering gym. Getting rid of excess energy in the evenings on the treadmill or the elliptical trainer helped replace my worries with exhaustion, but it was nothing compared to the kick that climbing gave me. It not only engaged every muscle in my body but also silenced my thoughts. Switching off my brain had been a challenge the last few months.
I ventured higher and higher—until I heard the beeping of my phone alarm several metres below. A reminder that it was time to leave. I let go of the grips reluctantly and landed on the mats with a groan. Sweat dripped from my forehead. I pulled off my drenched T-shirt and went to the bench to collect my water bottle and a towel to wipe my face with.
I grabbed my phone and turned off the alarm. More tiny red numbers had appeared next to the apps in the last hour: twenty-seven missed calls, ninety-two unread messages, one hundred and twenty-eight unanswered emails. I didn’t have to open them to know that none of them bore good news.
I’d always known that I’d take over The Darlington sooner or later. Not only was I the oldest son; I was also the only one interested in the hotel. Logan was only two years younger than me, but he’d turned his back on our parents and the family business years ago to do his own thing. And Ethan? He was onlytwenty, and most of the time, his thoughts went no further than the panties of the next model he wanted to screw. So it was up to me to run the hotel. I’d initially envisioned a smooth transition, with my dad gradually stepping back from the business. I hadn’t reckoned with being handed the responsibility all in one day while a massive high-society scandal steamrollered my family.
I draped my towel over my shoulders and headed for the changing room, nodding in greeting at the janitor, who had the thankless task of letting me into the gym this early. He returned the gesture wanly and wished me a nice day—something I could only dream of. My day was chockablock with appointments, and I just knew all kinds of disasters awaited me. Thanks to the workout, though, I at least felt halfway prepared to face it.
My phone vibrated. A message from Logan. If there was anyone who had an even more fucked-up sleep cycle than me, it was my brother. He owned one of the hippest restaurants in the city and was often there until late at night—before getting up early the next morning to buy fresh ingredients for the evening. He had sent me a photo of today’s page of his mindfulness calendar, as he did every day.
Love yourself
and you will never be unhappy.
Me:
Is this a call to masturbate?
Logan:
Make fun of me all you like. This calendar is awesome.
Me:
You only say that because it’s encouraging you to have a wank.
Logan:
You’re just jealous.
Me:
You keep telling yourself that.
I’d given Logan the calendar with its nuggets of pseudowisdom last Christmas. It had become a tradition to buy him something silly, because for eight years, he’d been giving me the same present for every occasion: a DVD ofLondon Has Fallen, the most terrible film in existence. We’d gone to the cinema to watch it together, but I’d hated it so much that I’d left early, leaving Logan to sit through the rest alone. He had never forgiven me for that. And to make sure I didn’t get the idea of selling the DVDs or even throwing them away, he left me personal messages inside the cases.
I pushed open the door to the changing room. As I was the only person at the gym, I left my sports bag on the bench instead of in a locker. I undressed and showered in the adjoining bathroom, turning the water temperature all the way down to cool my hotbody. I felt a headache brewing behind my temples. Back in the changing room, I popped a pill to keep me half functioning for the next few hours. And after drying my hair, I removed my suit from the clothes bag. I planned to go straight from working out to work.
I pulled on my trousers and a shirt, tied my tie, and slipped into my jacket. I squared my shoulders and scrutinised my reflection in the mirror hanging between the scratched lockers. Everything fit perfectly. The dark suit, my black hair, even the three-day beard I’d been cultivating, much to my mum’s irritation. It was my little rebellion against a well-oiled system. The only flaw was the dark rings under my blue eyes, which hadn’t been there the year before. But I assumed I was the only one who noticed them, because no one actually cared. People didn’t really see me. They saw only what they wanted to see.
My dad: a businessman.
My mum: a beacon of hope.
The press: an heir.
The rest of the world: a guy with power.
I, on the other hand, saw a man trapped in a golden cage he couldn’t break out of without leaving his family and the hotel in the lurch. A hotel he loved above all else. The Darlington Dynasty stood on the brink of collapse—and it was up to me to save it.
The Blackroom
Welcome to the Blackroom, the place of Richard Darlington’s nightmares.
Men with too much power and even more money traditionally get off scot-free, but we believe that none of them deserve a free pass—not even Richard Darlington. Which is why we’ve created the Blackroom: an independent blog that stands in solidarity with Richard Darlington’s victims.
We have connections at The Darlington Hotel and contacts in Richard Darlington’s family and inner circle... and we’re poised and ready to bring his darkest secrets to light.
