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“It doesn’t matter now, anyway.” I’d looked away. “None of it matters, does it Alistair?”
I’ll never call him my father, because he’s never acted like that.
“If you want anything, I can arrange it.” He actually sounded genuine.
“I don’t want anything.”
“Would you like to live with me when school is over?”
I hugged myself, unable to answer. I shrugged.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s too soon to be able to determine those details.”
Details.
That’s all this was for him.
So we sat there in uncomfortable silence until it was time to go.
I attended my mum’s funeral. Saw all her friends, my aunt, my grandmother. I sat through the entire thing, wondering if I were in my own personal hell, because that’s how I felt; cold and alone.
The ceremony went by in a blur. Even now, I can’t recall half the details.
The entire time Alistair sat beside me and never said a word until it was time to leave. He assumed I’d be going with him, back to Kent. But my grandmother had other ideas. In hindsight, I should’ve fought to stay with him. Or anyone except her. I should’ve used my voice to tell her what I wanted, not that anyone would’ve listened.
After that awful Friday afternoon, I never saw Alistair Devereaux ever again. He was like a ghost. A man who existed only in my dreams. A man who disappeared like I meant nothing to him at all.
But that would all change seventeen years later.
Chapter One
Alistair
Present Day
I barely heard any of the meeting. I’ve worked out a way to tune boring shit out, yet still be able to retain some of the conversation, in case my employees asked questions.
I’ve been in advertising for as long as I can remember. Devereaux Media had been my father’s company, and since his retirement, the torch had been passed down to me. Of course, this is what I know. What I’m good at. But after a while, it all got monotonous.
For some reason, I’ve been craving to get away from the city these last few weeks. Work has been crazy, and though I’d never care to admit it aloud, I’m burned out.
I have a manor in Elstone, Gloucestershire, nestled in the picturesque Cotswolds. It’s my sanctuary. A place I like to go when I need to reset. It’s quiet, for one, and surrounded by nature — something I never knew I craved until my forties —and most of all, I like how I switch off from everything whenever I’m there. That doesn’t happen as often as I’d like.
My three-story apartment in South Kensington, however, is where I spend most of my time. It’s opulent with 3,000 square feet. Three bedrooms; mine has a dressing room, and three bathrooms all finished in marble with brass fixtures. The kitchen, which I rarely use, is equipped with every appliance under the sun. The reason I bought the apartment in the first place was the 360 degree wrap-around terrace with views across London.
My life is hectic, to say the least. I run a multi-billion-dollar company, and with that comes sacrifices. I’ve never remarried, not after Abigail died, and I’ve never desired children. Some would say I’m a ladies’ man, but just because I know how to fuck a woman right, doesn’t mean I’m any kind of gigolo. I just know what women want, and there have been many, but I’ve never really been capable of more.
However, lately I’ve been feeling less and less like meaningless sex —which isn’t like me — and I don’t know if it has anything to do with my upcoming 45th birthday, or if it’s something more sinister. Maybe I’m facing a mid-life crisis? I usually bed a woman two to three times a week. I think that’s normal for a bachelor my age who doesn’t have any other commitments aside from work. Admittedly, sometimes I use an escort service, but more times than not, I’ll pick women up in a bar or one of the clubs my friends drag me to on the weekends. The opposite sex are complicated creatures, which is why using an escort agency can be less harrowing. We both know why we’re there, and the women are exactly my taste because I only use Élégance. A high-class, professional service and above all else, discreet. I’ve used them before when I needed a date without the romantic hassles. Not all the women who work there are your typical bimbos. Without trying to sound arrogant, I don’t need to buy women, but they are a hell of a lot less complicated.
“You know that the second you start thinking about staying in on your birthday, rather than hanging out with us, is a sure sign your balls have already shrivelled up to the size of grapes.” My best friend, Devon’s words ring in my ears.
We’ve known each other since my early rugby days, and then we studied together at Eaton. He’s always the first to tell me what he thinks, whether I want his opinion or not.
I’d told him to fuck off. Then again, if I don’t let my friends throw me some meaningless party, then I’ll have no friends at all. I’ve left the details completely up to Devon and my sister Layne. My sister is ten years younger than me, and a royal pain in my ass. Literally, she will stalk me and hunt me down if I don’t let her have some say. To me, it’s just another birthday. Just another way to be reminded of getting older and how lonely my life really is.
I have no one to blame but myself. I take full responsibility for throwing myself into my work and leaving little time for anything else. My father was a workaholic, and he only retired early because of a second heart scare, and my mother giving him an ultimatum. There’s nothing like the onset of an oncoming heart attack to make a person realise that not everything revolves around the office.
I’d do well to heed some of my mother’s advice. She has always been the stronger one emotionally out of the two.
