Page 70 of Queen of Ruin

“Darren…” he sighs like a warning not to tempt him into telling the truth, because sometimes the truth can be unbearable.

But I have to know.

“What was more important than warning me?” I question, turning away from him and looking at the bookshelf again in order to give myself some space.

“Am I not allowed to grieve?” He stands abruptly. I see the pain in his eyes that he’s always so careful to hide. I know that look, because I see it in the mirror every morning.

For a moment, I’m taken aback by his sudden rush of rare emotion; as if his heavy plates of armor have been stripped off unwillingly – aggressively. The moment is so heavy the air feels charged in this office, in the place where my father’s presence still lingers like the scent of aftershave long after its use.

“I was his son!” I yell, giving into my emotions.

“Do you think that your grief trumps everyone else’s?” Rausch demands.

“Yes!” I raise my arms in the air. “That’s how it works, Rausch. It is my blood, my legacy, and I had a right to know before anyone else.”

Rausch casts his eyes to the ground and pinches the bridge of his nose.

He slumps back into his chair and adjusts his tie. “I was in shock,” he explains, in a cool, and careful manner. “I tried to hold off the press…”

But he doesn’t finish the sentence because it doesn’t change what happened. It will never take back the pain in that moment when I saw the news, but it doesn’t overshadow the fact that my parents are no longer here.

“I regretted being in Vegas when I should have been at the lake house with them, on the helicopter with them.” Rausch’s eyes snap to mine. “And when my friends wouldn’t leave the suite, I did.”

I take my seat behind the desk once more, feeling the weight of it – always feeling the weight of it. Rausch sits on the other side, rapt with attention, and surprisingly no condescension in his stare.

“I went into the bar intent on drinking myself into a state where I wasn’t burdened with the knowledge that I was alone. When I got thrown out and I was sitting in that alley, I realized that the only two people in this world that would miss me if I ceased to exist, didn’t exist anymore themselves.”

His expression turns to one of sadness, and dare I say, maybe a bit of understanding.

“And the only person who cared enough to see if I was okay was a fucking hooker, as you so gently called her. She could have left me that night, I’d already paid her, but she didn’t, because I’d kicked Alistair out, and if she left, there would be no one there to know if I had aspirated in my fucking sleep! And how did I repay her?” I ask, feeling a heaviness in my chest that gnaws at me still. “I got her fired from her agency so she’d need the money I offered her to marry me.”

There’s a deep crease in his brow.

“Darren, I didn’t—” His voice is low and laced with remorse.

“You didn’t need to know in order to treat her with respect. Even after all of that, do you know where she is right now?”

Rausch sits perfectly still, his fingers laced together in his lap.

“She’s delivering necessities and clothing to Compton House.” I jab my finger against the wood desk forcefully enough to cause a jolt of pain to run through my knuckle. “My mother’s charity.” I don’t need to mention all of the other things she’s done since she got here, because I don’t need to explain what a good person she is to him. Whether he believes me or not is irrelevant, but he will treat her with some modicum of respect.

“I might have paid her to marry me, but I didn’t pay her to be a good person.”

“I’m sorry, Darren,” he apologizes in an unsettlingly quiet voice.

“I didn’t tell you that to garner an apology,” I explain, and he tilts his head in confusion. “I told you, because…” I falter, unsure myself why I needed to tell him, “because I needed to say it out loud.”

Saying it out loud makes it real. My truth of that night.

A knowing smile settles on Rausch’s face, but it’s not sinister or malicious. It’s the smile of a man who has worked out a puzzle, putting the last piece into place. I wonder what he thinks he knows.

Instead, he asks, “What do you propose we do about Ethel?”

“Ethel’s already been taken care of.” I settle back in my seat with a raised eyebrow. “What’s the point of being a billionaire if you can’t help people?”

“Money is not the solution for everything, and it’s definitely not sustainable.” He points out something that I already know. “Although I’m glad to hear you’re spending it on other things besides…”

I stop him before he says something pretentious and asinine.

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