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Chapter 409
409 Friends Are Overrated
(Jayden)
The three-hour flight goes by in a blur. I suspect I slept through most of it, lost in a drunken haze, but I can't be sure. My head is pounding, a steady, merciless throb that matches the ache in my chest.
The alcohol dulled the fire, but it's like trying to put out a forest blaze with a glass of water. It's only made the edges of my grief sharper, more cutting.
The jet touches down in London, and I force myself upright, stumbling slightly as I exit. My vision swims, and I grab my briefcase just to have something solid to hold onto.
The fight with Lance replays in my mind, every punch, every accusation. And Winona's face-her eyes wide with shock, then hurt. The memory crushes me like a boulder, heavy and unrelenting.
Viktor is waiting. Of course he is. He's leaning against a sleek black SUV, arms crossed, his expression as impassive as ever. His eyes narrow as he watches me stagger down the steps of the jet.
He pushes off from the car with that same unshakeable authority he always carries, moving toward me with a purpose I can't quite handle right now.
How the hell does he always know? How does everyone always know everything about me before I do?
"Mr. Brennan," Viktor greets, his voice smooth and unruffled. But his eyes? They're sharper than broken glass, cutting right through me. "Rough day?"
I laugh, but it comes out bitter, tasting like poison. "More like a goddamn train wreck." My voice is hoarse, the words slurring just enough to make it obvious I've been drinking.
I try to walk straight, but I stumble sideways. Viktor is there in an instant, steadying me with a firm grip.
"You've been drinking," he says, though it's not a question. His disapproval is clear.
"No shit, Sherlock?" I snarl, shrugging him off, though I nearly topple over again. "I'm fine, Viktor. Just... get me to the hotel."
He doesn't let go. His grip tightens, just enough to keep me upright. "I heard about the fight," he says, his voice neutral, but I know him well enough to hear the assumption underneath.Please check at N/ôvel(D)rama.Org.
My pulse spikes, the anger roaring back to life. "Yeah? Well, who gives a fuck?" The words spill out, reckless and ugly. "Maybe you had sex with my wife too."
The accusation tastes like acid, and for a moment, Viktor's face flickers with something-disappointment, maybe-but he locks it down, his jaw tightening.
He doesn't rise to the bait. He just leads me to the car, his silence infuriatingly calm. I collapse into the backseat, the leather cool against my overheated skin.
The city lights blur past, a smear of neon and shadow. My mind won't stop spinning. Winona. Lance. Phillip. The photos. It's all looping in my head, a horror film on repeat.
Viktor drives in silence. He finally speaks as we pull into the underground garage of our London building." You need rest, Jayden," he says, his voice steady. "You're not in any state to make decisions."
I don't argue. I feel like I'm coming apart at the seams. The alcohol is wearing off, leaving behind only raw, aching pain. Viktor helps me out of the car, and I want to shove him away, scream that I don't need anyone, but I don't have the energy.
We head inside, and the staff nod politely, probably too used to seeing powerful men fall apart. The thought makes me sick. I'm supposed to be better than this. Stronger. But here I am, a broken mess.
Viktor escorts me to my suite, his grip firm but not harsh. When I sit on the edge of the bed, he hands me a glass of water and some painkillers. "Drink," he orders. "Take these. And then sleep."
I glare at him, hating the way he's taking care of me, the way I obviously need it. "I don't need a babysitter, Viktor," I snap, but the words feel empty.
He raises an eyebrow, his voice dropping. "I'm doing my job."
I let out a bitter laugh. "Of course. Yes, your job. That's right. I'm the boss." My voice wavers, and I'm not sure if it's the exhaustion or the alcohol. "And, for the record, I don't have any friends anyway. Friends are overrated." He doesn't react. His face is as unreadable as ever. "Your best friend will be sleep. Get some, and then get cleaned up. We'll talk tomorrow."
I tear off my rumpled clothing, feeling for my phone. My fingers close around it, and for a second, I consider calling Winona. But I can't. Not yet. I doubt she'd want to hear from me, and I'm not sure I have anything kind to say.
My throat tightens, and I throw the phone onto the bedside table, collapsing back onto the mattress. Viktor stands there for a moment, watching me like he's trying to figure out if I'm going to do something reckless. But finally, he leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.
The silence feels suffocating. I stare up at the ceiling, the room spinning slightly. Everything hurts. My body. My heart. My pride. And beneath the anger, there's something else. Something I don't want to admit. Regret.
I cover my face with my hands, everything crashing down on me. I want to blame Winona, blame Lance or Phillip, blame Mother, blame the whole damn world. But a small, stubborn voice whispers that maybe, just maybe... I'm not as right as I want to believe.