I gave George his phone back. “If the interview is anonymous, isn’t it possible it’s all lies?”
“Everyone who has worked for The Darlington for any length of time knows everything that’s being said is true.”
“But Henry isn’t ignoring the allegations.” Even if he wanted to, it wouldn’t be possible. They had taken over his life.
Rose snorted. “Of course you’d say that.”
“That’s not fair of you,” I answered hotly, my stomach clenching. I felt an overwhelming urge to defend Henry. “You don’t know him—at least not the way I do. He’s taking the matter really seriously, and he’s doing his best.”
Rose grimaced. “And his best is to keep silent about what his dad has done?”
“What do you think he should do?” I asked. She made it sound trivial, like something that could be easily fixed. But if it were that simple, Henry would have done it already. “Is he supposed to tell the press that his dad is a monster, and then stand by as the hotel—his home—goes under?”
“You don’t know that would happen. Perhaps people would admire his courage and rally to save the hotel. It would be worth a shot, instead of dismissing the victims and indirectly hoping they’ll lose in court.”
“If Henry takes a public stance, it would ruin the hotel,” Rakesh said. He sipped his coffee and joined us at the table. “I’ve been at The Darlington for twenty years, and I spent five of those as a manager under Richard’s leadership. I know the man and how he operates. If Henry openly defies him, he would see it as an unforgivable humiliation. He would take his son and the hotel down with him, no matter the cost. His ego wouldn’t allow for anything else. Henry is doing everything right.”
Rose’s lips parted as if she wanted to speak, but either she had run out of arguments, or she didn’t want to fight with a superior. Instead, she rose from her seat and left the break room. George, Rakesh, and I followed her with our eyes, but none of us commented on her silent departure.
31
The Cat’s Out of the Bag: Henry Darlington’s McDonald’s Date Is a Hotel Employee!
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Kate
I wasn’t in the mood to talk after Rose’s abrupt departure, and George seemed to feel the same way. When Rakesh excused himself, presumably to sneak a smoke in his office, I pulled out my phone to take a closer look atThe Blackroom. The blog published regular posts about the hotel, which ranged from anonymous interviews and updates on the ongoing lawsuit, to old stories that had faded into obscurity. One article covered an assault charge that had been filed against Richard Darlington twenty years ago. Another was about a conspicuous black eye that Henry’s mum had attempted to conceal under a thick layer of makeup several years ago. Even back then, suspicion had fallen on Richard.
It was a mystery to me how the blog could have escaped my notice until now. There were dozens of comments beneath each post, and it even had its own hashtag—#theblackroom—which people used on social media. Whoever ran this blog had clearlyinvested a great deal of time and effort in portraying Richard in the worst possible light. Each word dripped with hatred and contempt, sparking curiosity about who was behind the blog. In the comments, people speculated that the blog might have been started by some of the women who had filed assault charges against Richard but hadn’t joined the lawsuit for whatever reason. It seemed plausible, especially since most of the allegations came from women who had worked for the hotel at some point. Which would explain the detailed insider knowledge.
Did Henry know the blog existed? I decided to talk to him about it when I got the chance, and put my phone away to get to work.
Just as I stepped out into the corridor, I heard Giulia call my name. “Kate?”
I glanced up. “Yes?”
“Grace has just called in sick. I need someone to cover the private floor. Could you take care of it? No one else is available right now.” Giulia asked, but it wasn’t really a question so much as an order. She held out the golden ID card expectantly. Room attendants needed the card to be granted access to the family’s private quarters, which Grace was usually assigned to. She had to return the card at the end of every shift to prevent it from being misused.
“OK. But I’ve never done it alone.”
“You’ll manage. And don’t worry, Mrs. Darlington is at brunch with her friends, and Mr. Darlington is in a meeting with his lawyers.”
“What about Ethan?”
“He’s probably nursing a hangover in some lecture. But what do I know?” Giulia shrugged. “If you run into any problems, you know where to find me.”
I nodded and headed off. In the lift, I sent Grace a quick get-well-soon message, and she wrote back straightaway, assuring me it was just period cramps and she’d be fine by tomorrow. After retrieving the cleaning trolley from the housekeeping room on the top floor, I decided to start with the penthouse belonging to Henry’s parents before they returned. So far, I hadn’t run into either of them, and after everything I’d heard—and what I’d just read onThe Blackroom—I had no desire to change that.
The Darlingtons’ penthouse apartment was enormous, even bigger than Henry’s, and surprisingly cosy. Crowded bookshelves lined the walls, a large corner sofa was adorned with an abundance of cushions, and colourful floral arrangements brightened up the space. The decorative houseplants and statues had presumably been picked out by Henry’s mum or an interior designer—I couldn’t for the life of me picture his dad browsing antique shops or designer furniture shops for them. The walls were decorated with family photos from a variety of locations, according to the small plaques on the frames: St. Moritz, 2006; Bora Bora, 2007; Venice, 2007; Shanghai, 2008. Even though I was surrounded by the Darlington family’s luxury on a daily basis, I sometimes forgot how wealthy Henry was, because it didn’t matter when we were together. But small reminders like these photos brought his money into sharp focus, hammering home the fact that our worlds were millions of pounds apart. I had never set foot in any of these places and probably never would. Meanwhile, Henry had visited them all before he’d even turned ten, without his family having to think twice about the cost. For him, it was normal. For me, it was unimaginable.
Logan wasn’t in any of the photos. It was as though he had been erased from the Darlington family history. The most recentphoto was taken in 2019 and showed Ethan, around thirteen, with a younger, less exhausted-looking Henry.
“Those photos won’t dust themselves.”
I jumped and whirled around to see Amanda Darlington standing in the doorway. My street instincts were clearly failing me—I hadn’t even heard the door unlock.
She stepped inside and removed her coat, revealing an outfit that others would have worn to a gala rather than a brunch. Her blond hair was shoulder length, and her gold jewellery gleamed under the overhead light.
