Falling from Grace: A Billionaire Romantic Suspense series (The Filth Monger Series Book 1) Read Free Page B

instinctively, and pushed the paper away from me. My breathing got faster, harder, and I began to tremble.
    ‘You may as well read it,’ Liv said. ‘Get it over with.’
    Reluctantly, I picked it up. My hands were shaking so much I could barely keep it still enough to read. Added to which, I had so many thoughts whirling in my mind, it was as if I were in a fog. It was hard to focus enough to take it in.
    I went to put it down again, but Liv stayed me with her hand. ‘Read it.’
    I looked up at her, then back down at the paper.
    ‘You have to know what’s gone on, Grace,’ she said. ‘Or you won’t be able to protect yourself.’
    I nodded slowly. She was right. I had to know. I didn’t want to in the least, but I had to find out what everyone else already knew.
    I took a deep breath, and began to read.

Three
     
    fag British public (boarding) school institution (now allegedly out-dated), whereby a junior boy is in service to a senior boy. A fag’s chores could include anything, from making tea and taking messages, to more demeaning tasks, such as polishing shoes, depending upon the fag master and his whims. An honourable fag master would also look out for his fag; by protecting him from bullies, etc. Fagging did not usually have sexual connotations.
     
     
    I saw her again on the news, that lunchtime. My morning hadn’t started well, but she seemed to be having a worse day even than me.
    ‘Poor kid,’ I murmured to myself, watching her come out the front entrance of Ffyvells. She was just as beautiful, even with her make-up smudged and that tight, wan look. It was no surprise she was with a Premiership player, even if he was only in one of the lower teams. She could’ve had one of the stars just as easily.
    She was so delicate; slim and fine-boned, with huge, shocked eyes that peered out from between locks of her hair. It looked as if she’d deliberately pushed it forward, to afford herself some protection. Long tendrils of it twisted across her face, and the sun caught it as she gazed around her, turning it to copper and gold. She looked hunted. Beautiful but defeated. It was a marked contrast from the defiant Amazon I’d confronted in Max’s office, who’d just dared me to look at her after Max had yelled at her like that.
    I’d been furious with him, even though she’d clearly pissed him off somehow. He’d had four calls while I was in with him and, looking back, they were obviously something to do with her. After the third, he’d seen her through his window, and shouted for her like she was his fag at school. I’d hated it then, and I hated it now.
    He’d never had to fag. He’d had acne, when we’d started school together, and none of the older boys had wanted him. I hadn’t been so lucky, and when I’d taken on a fag of my own, I’d known how to treat him.
    Max had ridden roughshod over his, and hearing him yell like that had thrown me back twenty years. I could almost feel the roughness of the starched white collars and the frock coats; taste the vile muck that passed for dinner; smell the musty, echoing classrooms. He hadn’t changed. He still treated his underlings as fags.
    I’d tried to smile at her, there in his office, let her know secretly that I was on her side. She’d been too proud to take my pity. She’d just glared. She didn’t need my solidarity. That girl - perfect as she was - I could have forgotten. She was a match for Max. She could fight her own wars. This broken version was a different matter.
    As the cameras played on her, she stood on the front steps of Ffyvells, gazing around at the bustle of Lombard Street as if she were seeing it for the first time. She seemed dazed…like she was wondering what the hell was going on. She seemed to have no clue why the reporters were there, how famous she was…or how beautiful.
    She’d also been drinking. Most people wouldn’t have noticed, but I owned clubs. It was second nature to me to spot when someone was vulnerable,