The End of a Marriage (Colette and Matheo) novel Chapter 227

CHAPTER 21

Graham slouched in his father’s chair, the heavy leather creaking

under his weight as he swirled the remnants of whiskey in his glass.

The study reeked of alcohol and regret, the dim light casting long

shadows over the walls lined with books. On the polished desk in

front of him sat a nearly empty bottle of whiskey, a silent testament

to his determination to drown out the chaos in his mind.

He poured another drink, the amber liquid sloshing over the rim, and

tipped it back without hesitation. The burn in his throat was a

fleeting distraction from the turmoil within. Without pause, he

reached for the bottle again, his unsteady hand spilling a few drops

onto the desk as he poured himself yet another glass.

“Mr. Lancaster?”

The voice cut through the haze like a shard of glass, and for a fleeting

moment, his heart lurched. Isla? The hope flared briefly before it was

extinguished by the realization that whoever it was had called him

Mr. Lancaster. Isla never called him that. It was probably Maggie or

one of the other staff, dutifully checking in.

He grimaced, tossing back the drink in one rough motion. His eyes

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narrowed as Maggie stepped into the doorway, her expression a mix

of concern and disapproval.

The older woman didn’t wait for an invitation. She crossed the

threshold with an air of authority, clucking her tongue as she took in the sight of Graham and the nearly depleted whiskey bottle. “Oh

dear,” she muttered, shaking her head. “This isn’t good.”

Graham rolled his eyes and poured himself another drink, the liquid

hitting the glass with a sharp clink. “We’ll postpone the lecture until

tomorrow morning, Maggie, if it’s all the same to you.” His voice was

laced with irritation, though the slur in his words betrayed just how

deep he was into the bottle.

Maggie’s sharp gaze didn’t waver. “I think not,”

“What?” Graham squinted against the bright light streaming through

the doorway, his bleary eyes struggling to focus on the woman

standing there. Maggie, her frame solid and maternal, with an air of

authority that belied her role, stepped inside the room.

“I said,” she repeated firmly, her tone brooking no argument, “I think

we should have that talk right now, Master Graham.”

He could see it now, the disapproval in her sharp gaze, cutting

through the fog of his inebriation. She looked every bit the stern

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matron, hands on her hips and lips pressed into a thin line. Graham

sighed, the weight of her silent judgment pressing down on him.

“Well, isn’t this just delightful,” he muttered under his breath,

leaning back in his father’s chair. “What exactly is it now, Maggie?

Come to scold me for enjoying a drink in my own home?”

Maggie didn’t flinch. “Do you really think your father would approve

of this, Master Graham?” she asked, her voice pointed and deliberate.

Graham groaned, rolling his eyes. “Ah, there it is,” he said with a

bitter smirk. “The classic emotional appeal. Typical.”

The older woman’s expression didn’t waver, and her silence was more

damning than any words she could have said.

“If my drinking offends you so much, Maggie,” he continued, his voice dipping into a cutting drawl, “why don’t you do us both a favor and leave? Lock the door on your way out, ‘hmm? Then we can both be

comfortable.”

The words tasted bitter as they left his mouth, and even in his

drunken haze, he winced inwardly. One of his friends had once told

him he was a mean drunk, and now he was proving them right.

“I wasn’t talking about the drinking, Master Graham,” Maggie said,

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her voice laced with a quiet intensity that cut through his stupor. “I

was talking about what you were doing with poor Isla.”

In a split second, Graham felt as though all the alcohol in his system

had evaporated. His mind snapped into clarity with a force that left

him more alert than any night guard in a high–security facility. He set

the glass he’d been holding down carefully, his movements slow and

deliberate.

“Did she… Did Isla say something to you?” His voice was measured,

though a flicker of unease betrayed him.

Maggie’s sharp eyes narrowed, and she crossed her arms over her

chest. “No, she didn’t have to,” she said firmly. “I saw it myself. I saw

you kissing her at the dinner table before the poor girl ran off like a

frightened little animal, scarred half to death.”

Graham winced, guilt tightening like a vice in his chest.

“And now,” Maggie continued, stepping closer to the desk, “I want to

know–no, I demand to know–what your intentions are regarding

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