Chapter Text
It was too early to get out of bed. Too loud to even form a coherent thought, and far too bright to greet the day with anything resembling human decency. Even the birds outside his window seemed determined to make the morning unbearable. Their high-pitched chirping slipped through the curtains and drilled themselves straight into Bastien’s aching skull until he seriously considered whether throwing something through the window would make them shut the fuck up.
His head hurt. A lot.
A persistent pressure sat behind his temples and stretched across his forehead, pulsing along with every beat of his heart. Even breathing too deeply seemed to make it worse. Bastien lay sprawled across the bed, still dressed in most of what he had worn the night before. His white shirt was wrinkled beyond saving; half untucked from his trousers and opened several buttons down his chest. One shoe had somehow made it beside the bed. The other appears to have vanished entirely. He couldn’t remember taking either of them off. Actually, he couldn’t remember getting home either.
There were pieces of it somewhere. The car, perhaps. Someone holding a door open for him. A staircase that had seemed far more difficult to climb than stairs had any right to be. After that, nothing. Somehow, he had managed to find his bedroom and collapse onto the mattress without killing himself along the way, which, considering the state he had been in, was achievement enough. The rest of the night still clung to him. Alcohol had soaked itself into his clothes, mixed with expensive cologne and the faint remains of cigarette smoke. His carefully combed hair had long since surrendered, dark strands sticking out in every direction and falling across his forehead. His mouth tasted vile.
He had drunk too much.
Probably.
Bastien closed his eyes tighter. There had been champagne first. Then whiskey. Someone had ordered vodka later, though he couldn’t remember who. Three bottles? Four? Perhaps that had been between the table and not entirely his responsibility. He certainly hadn’t been the only person drinking. There had been women too. Of course, there had been women. Otherwise, there would have hardly been any point in staying until whatever ungodly hour he had eventually left. One of them had been particularly pretty. Mariam? Marina? Polina? He frowned into the pillow. Had he even asked her name?
He remembered dark hair. A hand resting against his chest. Red lipstick close to his ear while she whispered something he had apparently found very funny at the time. Bastien tried to reconstruct her face and found himself unable to decide whether the mouth and the eyes he remembered even belonged to the same woman. Maybe there had been two.
That sounded more plausible. He would have killed to have one of them lying beside him now. Someone warm and preferably naked, if only he had something more pleasant to concentrate on than the sensation of his skull slowly splitting open.
Except there wasn’t anyone. No dress abandoned on the floor. No heels beside his bed. No unfamiliar perfume on the sheets. Bastien stared at the empty side of the mattress for several seconds. Had there even been a woman last night?
“Bollocks,” he groaned hoarsely. He rolled onto his back and immediately regretted it. The room shifted around him, slow and unpleasant, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut again. His stomach followed a second later. He should not have taken the cocaine.
That much he could admit.
The drinking was one thing. Drinking was hardly unusual. Everyone drank. Everyone worth knowing certainly did, and Bastien wasn’t about to become one of those miserable bastards who spent an entire evening nursing a single glass of whiskey as though self-restraint made them interesting. The cocaine had perhaps been unnecessary. The first line had been fine. The second had been reasonable. The third? Well. The third had been there. What exactly had he been expected to do? Refuse it?
He had considered it. For perhaps half a second. There had even been that quiet little thought somewhere at the back of his head telling him that he had already had enough, that he should go home, sleep it off and wake up before his mother had another reason to look at him as though he were the latest embarrassment attached to the families name.
Then somebody had pushed the little silver tray closer. The white line had sat there beneath the dim light of the club, neat and waiting, and his fingers had already started itching before Bastien had properly decided anything at all. Okay, he had wanted it, but he still hesitated. In his mind, at least. For half a second.
Bastien rubbed one hand over his face and let it fall heavily onto his chest. His heart still beat a little too quickly beneath his palm, though whether that was the cocaine, the alcohol or the simple irritation of being awake at seven thirty in the morning was anybody’s guess. He had simply enjoyed himself. That was all. There was no need to turn it into some pathetic little tragedy. So, he had drunk until most of the evening became pleasantly difficult to remember. So, he had taken another line when his thoughts had started becoming irritating. So what? It had been a party. That was what people did at parties.
It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that every time the room grew quiet, his mind started wandering toward things he preferred not to think about.
The company. His father. Viktoria -
Bastien’s jaw tightened.
No. Absolutely fucking not. He wasn’t doing this now. He had gone out because he wanted to go out. He had drunk because he wanted to drink. He had taken the cocaine because he could. Simple as that.
There was no hole he was trying to fill and no miserable little voice inside his head whispering that perhaps everyone around him had finally begun realizing what Bastien already suspected on his worst nights. That he wasn’t enough.
His fingers curled slightly against his chest. Ridiculous. Bastien Wycliffe was not a failure. The thought came almost angrily now, as though somebody else had accused him and he merely had the misfortune of being the only person awake to defend himself. He was 28 years old. He was a Wycliffe, for God’s sake. He had money, position, women and a surname half the city would happily sell their dignity to possess. He walked into rooms other men spent their entire lives trying to enter. People knew who he was before he bothered learning who they were
Failures did not live like this.
Failures weren’t Bastien fucking Wycliffe.
He could drink however much he wanted. He could gamble however much he wanted. He could fuck whoever he wanted, and if he wanted another line at three in the morning, he did not need anyone’s permission to take it.
His father would probably call it a lack of discipline.
His mother would call it humiliating.
Bastien called it none of their fucking business.
Satisfied enough with that conclusion, he finally forced his eyes open. He regretted it immediately.
Morning light poured through the gap between the curtains and struck him directly in the face. Bastien recoiled against the pillow, squinting at the offending brightness as though the sun itself had personally decided to antagonize him.
“Jesus Christ.”
Had the room always been this fucking bright?
Bastien reached blindly for the nearest pillow and dragged it over his face, pressing it against his eyes until the morning disappeared beneath feathers and expensive cotton. Better. If he couldn’t see the day, perhaps the day would eventually lose interest in him and go bother somebody else. He needed another three hours of sleep. Four, preferably. Possibly death. At least death sounded quiet.
For several blessed seconds there was nothing but the muffled pounding inside his skull and the distant chirping of those godforsaken birds outside. Then he heard the heels. Bastien went still beneath the pillow.
Not now.
The sharp clicking came from somewhere beyond his bedroom, faint at first against the polished floors of the corridor. Then closer. Faster. Each step landed with the familiar, merciless precision of someone who had never once had in her life needed to hurry and nevertheless expected the rest of the world to move out of the way.
He knew those steps.
He had grown up hearing them.
They had followed failed examinations, school complaints, drunken teenage mornings, disastrous parties, photographs that should never have reached newspapers and approximately every decision Bastien had ever made that his mother considered beneath the dignity of their surname. Which, lately, appeared most of them.
He pushed the pillow harder against his face. Maybe she would keep walking. The footsteps stopped outside his door. Naturally, they fucking did. God had never liked him that much.
The doors swung open with enough force that Bastien heard one strike the stopper against the wall. He didn’t bother looking. He could already picture the scene perfectly well: Margaux standing in the doorway, one hand probably still resting against the handle, staring at the disaster that was her firstborn son and mentally calculating how many generations of de Chanteracs had rolled over in their graves because of him.
“Bastien Fredrick Wycliffe.”
Her voice had been calm, which was worse. Bastien slowly lowered the pillow just enough to look at her through half-open eyes. There she stood. Already dressed.
Margaux looked as though morning had asked permission before touching her. Her short silver-grey hair sat perfectly sculpted away from her face, not one strand having apparently suffered the indignities his own had overnight. A sharply tailored brown suit followed the clean lines of her narrow frame, softened only by a rust-coloured silk blouse beneath it and the gold at her throat and wrist. Even her glasses seemed judgemental, resting elegantly against her nose while cool hazel-brown eyes regarded him from behind them.
Seven thirty in the morning and the woman looked prepared to acquire a company before breakfast.
Bastien looked like the company had collapsed on top of him. Laughable.
“Are you aware what time it is?”
He considered several answers. Unfortunately, none of them seemed likely to improve his morning. So Bastien said nothing. Margaux’s gaze travelled slowly across him. The wrinkled shirt. The open buttons. The stubble that had gone from deliberately maintained to merely exhausted. His hair. The abandoned jacket. The single shoe beside his bed. The smell of alcohol drifting through the room. Her mouth tightened. “Apparently not.”
He pushed himself upright against the headboard, immediately regretting the movement when another pulse of pain rolled through his skull. He rubbed a hand across his eyes and tried not to visibly wince.
Margaux crossed farther into the room. “You were expected downstairs twenty minutes ago?” Bastien laughed in his mind. Twenty minutes my ass. He was glad to even have woken up at all. Or probably not. “I must have missed the invitation” His voice came out rougher than intended. Her expression didn’t move. “Considering the state of you, I imagine you missed several things last night.” He let his head fall back against the headboard. He would kill for a painkiller. Did he even have some left in his drawer? Probably not the good time to look through it, when his mother was standing there, already dissecting him alive. “Your step-grandmother has been murdered. A woman has been arrested for it. Your family is appearing publicly at her hearing this morning, and you have somehow decided that this was an appropriate evening to disappear until dawn.”
Oh, yeah. That was also a thing. The murder. He almost forgot about it. Perhaps imagining his mother gone instead, was not the wisest decision right now. Then his head throbbed again and destroyed whatever amusement had been forming in his imagination. Margaux eyes narrowed slightly. “How much did you drink?”
As it seemed, not enough, he thought to himself. “Judging by your appearance, considerably more than enough.”
There was something almost impressive about the way she said it. No disgust in her voice. No anger. Margaux rarely wasted either emotion when disappointment could do considerably more damage. Bastien looked away. The curtains were suddenly fascinating.
“At some point,” she continued, “you are going to have to understand that being born a Wycliffe does not make public humiliation any more charming.”
Bastien gave a tired huff through his nose. His mother moved toward the discarded jacket and picked it up between two fingers, examining it with the same expression she might have worn upon discovering something unpleasant beneath her shoe.
“Do you know where you were photographed last night?” Shit. His eyes returned to her. “A Danilov establishment. A newspaper editor telephoned the house before breakfast.”
Ah. That.
Bastien leaned his head back again. God, he needed the painkillers right about 4 minutes earlier. “So?” he murmured with less effort. “So?” Margaux repeated quietly.
He hated when she did that. Repeated a word as though she wanted him to hear how stupid it sounded coming from his own mouth. “You are already carrying enough embarrassment without allowing people to photograph you stumbling out of a Danilov club at four in the morning.”
Him? Stumbling? Bastien frowned. He would have argued, if he had any knowledge what had happened last night. But he couldn’t remember, so he let her have this moment. Margaux dropped the jacket onto the chair. “And judging by your pupils yesterday evening, alcohol was not the only thing involved, was it?” His jaw tightened. There was no real accusation in the sentence. She probably suspected enough. Bastien looked at her properly now. “If you are going to accuse me of something, mother, at least have the decency to actually accuse me.” Margaux studied him for several seconds. Then her gaze softened, barely. Not enough to become kindness. Perhaps that was what hurt most. “I don’t need to accuse you of anything, Bastien. You are sitting in front of me.”
He looked away first. Fucking headache. It was pissing him off too.
His head hurt, he was exhausted and he did not have the patience to sit here while Margaux dissected him before breakfast. She stepped closer and pulled one of the curtains open. Sunlight flooded the room. “Jesus fucking- “
“Get up.”
“Close that.”
“Get up.”
“For fucks sake, Mother.”
“You have twenty minutes.”
He squinted at her through the brightness. “Twenty?” he sounded horrified. He was horrified. Twenty minutes to do what?
“To shower, shave, dress and do whatever else is necessary to make you look as though you have not spent the night poisoning yourself.”
He stared at her. She stared back at him. He knew that look too. There would be no negotiation. Margaux rarely entered an argument she had not already decided she was going to win. “And please,” she added, glancing once more around the bedroom, “try to remember that your surname is attached to people other than yourself.”
Right. That was it. Again. The Wycliffe name.
Always the fucking Wycliffe name.
As though every drink he swallowed somehow stained Frederick’s portraits downstairs. As though his shirt being wrinkled threatened stock prices. As though the entire dynasty might collapse because Bastien had the audacity to wake up looking like shit.
He gave her a lazy salute.
“Yes, Mother.”
Her mouth tightened. She knew perfectly well when he was mocking her. “Twenty minutes, Bastien. Do not make me repeat myself.” She turned toward the door before stopping.
For half a second, he thought she might say something else. Something about whether he was all right. Whether he had slept. Whether the drugs had made his heart feel like it was attempting to break through his ribs. Stupid thoughts.
Margaux glanced back at him.
“Wear the charcoal suit. You look less exhausted in darker colours.” Then she left. The door closed behind her. Bastien stared at it. He laughed once beneath his breath, though there wasn’t much amusement in it. “Good morning to you too.”
The silence returned. So did his fucking headache. He sat there for another few seconds before forcing himself to swing his legs over the side of the bed. The floor moved unpleasantly beneath his feet when he stood. Bastien grabbed the bedpost. “Fucking hell.” He waited for the room to remember where it belonged. Eventually it did.
Mostly.
The shower helped, though not nearly enough. Cold water dragged some of the fog from his head, leaving the pain behind with irritating clarity. By the time Bastien stood before the mirror again, towel hanging low around his hips, he looked marginally more human. ‘Marginally’. He studied himself.
Warm olive skin had lost some of its usual colour beneath the bathroom lights. His hazel-green eyes were red around the edges and slightly sunken from a night without proper sleep. Dark blond hair, still damp, fell in loose waves over his forehead until he pushed it back with both hands. The carefully maintained stubble along his jaw couldn’t quite disguise how tired his face looked. He looked older after nights like this. Like someone had taken Bastien Wycliffe and erased some of the polish.
He hated it.
He reached for the little case holding his glass contact lenses, stared at it, then decided his eyes would probably stage a revolt if he attempted to fit the wretched things over them. Glasses it was. Fantastic. Nothing said irresistible like a hangover and corrective lenses. He pulled a clean white shirt from the wardrobe and smelled the collar before putting it on. Clean enough. He buttoned it slowly in front of the mirror, fingers fumbling once near his chest. Stupid tremor. He fastened the next button.
By the time the charcoal trousers were on and the waistcoat followed, the man in the mirror had begun looking more familiar. Tailoring was useful that way. Enough structure around the body and people stopped wondering what was happening inside it. His mother understood that better than anyone. Bastien adjusted the collar, pushed his damp hair properly into place and reached for the charcoal jacket Margaux had so graciously selected for him. He did look presentable. Not good, but presentable.
For the Wycliffe’s, apparently, that was the difference between personal collapse and acceptable family behavior.
“Let’s get this fucking day over with.” He shrugged into the jacket. Then stopped. There was absolutely no chance he was sitting through hours of lawyers talking in circles while sober. Bastien opened the lower drawer beside his wardrobe and reached behind a stack of folded sweaters nobody ever touched. His finger found the familiar glass bottle hidden against the back. Whiskey. Blessed fucking whiskey.
At least somebody in this house knew how to solve a problem. He took the silver hip flask from the same drawer and unscrewed the cap. Amber liquid poured quietly into it, the smell alone making something inside him loosen. He filled it nearly to the top. Then reconsidered and added the rest. Preparedness was important. His mother would approve of that principle, surely. Bastien slipped the flask into the inner pocket of his jacket, adjusted the fabric until nothing showed and regarded himself once more in the mirror. Charcoal suit. White shirt. Expensive watch. Signet ring. Hair fixed. Shoulders back.
There he was. Bastien Wycliffe had returned.
Nobody downstairs needed to know what it had taken to put him together.