Episode 15: His Desires
1244 Words
Liam had spent the better part of the week in Mr. Kearns’s office, the same warm room that smelled faintly of bergamot and polish. While the manager talked through staff schedules and donor demands, Liam listened with half an ear. He was waiting—for a glimpse of Paris, a shadow in the corridor, a laugh through the open door. But the days ticked by, and she never appeared.
By the third morning, the knot in his chest had tightened into something sharper. When Heather arrived with her usual brisk stride and arched brows, he pressed a small black box into her palm, his tone clipped.
“Give this to Paris. Don’t make a fuss.”
Heather cracked the box open—silver keychain, the New York skyline etched fine and gleaming. “Oh, this is absolutely fuss-proof,” she drawled.
“Heather.”
Her smile thinned. “Fine. I’ll play delivery girl. But when this blows up in your face, I’m ordering champagne.”
Heather swung into the care home car park, wipers slapping drizzle from the windshield like irritated metronomes. On the passenger seat, a paper bag of scones; in her handbag, Liam’s keychain.
The automatic doors sighed open, ushering her into reception. The place was grand—marble floors gleaming, lilies softening the tang of disinfectant. Behind an oak desk that looked borrowed from a solicitor’s office, a young nurse looked up, spa-serene.
“Paris isn’t in today. Called in sick. Flu,” she said with a sympathetic wince.
Heather blinked. “Flu? At her age? Her immune system should be forged in titanium.”
The nurse’s mouth curved. “Maybe not Belfast steel,” she teased, before the phone trilled impatiently.
Heather pivoted on her heels, swept back through the sliding doors, and tapped Liam’s name. He picked up instantly.
“Well?”
“She’s not here,” Heather said. “Flu. Called in sick.”
A sharp inhale, then Liam’s clipped fury: “That’s Raphael’s fault.”
Heather stopped between two parked Jaguars, eyebrows climbing. “I beg your pardon?”
“The cold,” Liam growled. “Dragging her to castles in winter. Sitting outside with bloody scones. That’s why she’s sick.”
Heather bit her cheek. “Ah yes, Belfast Castle—the hot zone of modern plagues. We’ll have to quarantine the gift shop.”
“Heather.”
“Don’t Heather me. You sound ready to sue a tourist attraction. She’s got the flu. It’s not a conspiracy plotted over Earl Grey and shortbread.”
Her laughter spilled out, drawing a scandalised look from an elderly visitor in pearls and fox fur—the very image of Downton Abbey: The Retirement Years. Heather gave her a regal wave, palm still over the receiver while Liam hissed curses.
Out here, drizzle dampened her hair, Jaguars and Bentleys lined the lot. And then—another sound, sharp and low: German.
Heather drifted closer, phone still to her ear. The care home’s polished façade felt oddly hollow against Raphael’s raw fury.
“…du verstehst mich nicht!” You don’t understand me!
A woman’s reply, soft, weary. “Bitte… Raphael, nicht so laut. Please, don’t shout. I can’t do this if you shout.”
Heather’s grip tightened on her bag. Her German was patchy, but enough. Can’t do this. Not business. Something else.
Raphael’s voice cracked. Softer, jagged. “Ich brauche dich. Aber nicht so.” I need you. But not like this.
Heather kept her phone to her ear, masking her glance. Liam’s rant had become static now, drowned under rain. The woman murmured zu spät—too late—before Raphael cursed and crushed his cigarette so violently the ember snapped.
“You know,” Heather murmured into the phone, lips quirking, “maybe, you’re right about one thing.”
A pause. Hopeful. “Finally.”
She ended the call with a neat tap, slipped the keychain back into her bag, and let her gaze flick once more toward Raphael.
The drizzle quickened as Heather strode back to her Evoque, heels sharp on wet tarmac. Sliding into the driver’s seat, she shut the door on lilies and disinfectant.
“Raphael’s definitely giving someone a cold,” she murmured. “Just not Paris.”
Phone in hand, she scrolled. Two accounts. One private—@rh.bad, bio stripped to ☕+🎶. The other: Anna Hartmann. Public. A woman in a wool coat, brown hair tucked back, smiling like life was simple.
The grid bloomed: kids’ crafts, lopsided cupcakes tagged #backtoschool, a balloon shaped like a seven.
Heather froze on the fourth row. Raphael, arm slung around two children, all three laughing in winter sunlight. Caption: Zu Hause ist, wo wir sind. Home is where we are. Two hearts. Location: Bad Homburg.
She pinched to zoom on Raphael’s grin. Easy. Unselfconscious. A grin he never wore in Malone’s marble halls.
“Got you,” she whispered, screenshotting.
Another post: two children holding cardboard signs—Willkommen zurück, Papa! Welcome back, Papa. Behind them, Raphael again. Proud. Gentle. Father.
Heather exhaled. This was the same week Liam had thrown his tantrum over Raphael and Paris’s matching lanyards—the tantrum that ended in two New York keychains. Billionaires and their theatrics.
She leaned back, watching Raphael in the smoking area, shoulders hunched, lighting another cigarette. The care home’s façade gleamed like stage scenery; Raphael looked worn, real, fraying.
Heather opened her phone again.
Update 1: HR confirms—Raphael Hartmann. Care assistant. German national. Three years in post.
Update 2: Found his family. Wife: Anna. Two kids. Screenshots attached.
Send.
She placed the paper bag of scones gently on the seat. A smile curved—not kind, not cruel. Just the satisfaction of a puzzle piece sliding into place.
The wipers swept drizzle from the windshield, steady as a metronome. Heather turned the key in the ignition.
“Well, Paris,” she murmured, watching the rain trace silver lines down the glass, “your gentleman’s family album is very well stocked.”
Her phone buzzed. Liam. She sighed, answered.
“You’ve had your update.”
“I’ve had more than that,” Liam said briskly, his earlier fury replaced with command. “You’ve tomorrow off. I’ve booked Galgorm for you. Thermal village, mud therapy, the works.”
Heather blinked. “You’re sending me to a spa?”
“You’ll thank me. You look tired. And while you’re wrapped in towels, call Haversham. I want him briefed. Use my name.”
Heather’s lips curved. Liam’s private investigator, Haversham, could find a skeleton in a locked safe at the bottom of the Lagan. “So—a facial and a conspiracy. How decadent.”
“Just do it, Heather.” His voice snapped like a whip, then softened. “And enjoy the spa. My treat.”
The line went dead. Heather tossed the phone onto the passenger seat beside the scones, laughter curling from her throat. Galgorm Spa and a call to Haversham. Only Liam could combine mud wraps with espionage.
Still, as she pulled out of the car park, she found herself picturing Galgorm’s steaming pools, fizz in hand, hot water rushing over tired skin. A sigh escaped—half amusement, half anticipation.
In her rear-view mirror, Raphael lingered in the smoking area, cigarettes flaring like warning lights against the polished façade.
Heather’s smile thinned. “Best never to cross a billionaire—or his desires,” she murmured, sliding the Evoque into gear.
- Writer
