Times New Roman Firing Squad - whimsicalwaves (2024)

It’s pretty much first thing on a Monday morning when Farleigh storms into Oliver’s office with all the fury of a French Revolution rioter storming the Bastille. “What on god’s green earth possessed you to give the Warner account to f*cking Gavey!?”

The office around Farleigh is as pretentious as you’d expect from someone like Oliver. Dark old mahogany wood wall panelling behind the man’s desk, the rest of the perimeter is only glass, the view of London expansive, interconnected concrete jungle and sleek reflective glass towers – The Thames snaking its way through the imposing city, the striking view of London Bridge a tie between the city separated by nature’s attempts to exact control over the civility and industrialisation demanded by the urban landscape.

Many of the more traditional and antique furnishings that remain in Oliver’s office are left over from his predecessor. Namely the dark walnut and cherrywood desk, luxury Italian craftsmanship which despite Farleigh’s more than modest salary would be an expense he could never afford. Farleigh’s eyes always catch the circular indent in the priceless wood, now blackened. A cigarette burn that had never been there before and how the handcrafted crystal ashtray is staged directly next to it.

The more modern additions are clearly Oliver’s tastes, his way of marking his territory like a stocky pit bull pissing in every potted plant in the office building. Farleigh can see it in the sleek leather grey sofa, monochrome postmodern art, minimalist art décor. The only thing of Oliver’s that Farleigh would consider in keeping with the antiquated aesthetic is the original Goya that hangs directly behind Oliver’s desk. Farleigh’s eyes catch the oil painting, soot covered bodies writhing and intertwined together in terror, agony, and grief. Above them the flush of pale orange flames ominous and imposing, trapping the wretched creatures in their fate. All around is black threatening to swallow the scene whole like darkening around the vision when the eyes begin to close.

Figures Oliver would choose something so bloody macabre. Disconcerting enough to have whoever enters his office on edge from the get go while still remaining above board.

Oliver is clearly a fan of the artist, it’s not just an attempt to present himself as cultured and urbane. As on the table that rests a tumbler of Glenfiddich is a frame of a black and white print, a human body with the head of a donkey, turned towards the viewer where the creature is pouring over a genealogical record. The satire print on clear display is an interesting choice and Oliver always struck Farleigh as purposeful in every decision he made right down to his office furnishings. Likely the joke and statement goes over most people’s heads.

Farleigh has to give it to Oliver however, he’s struck a good balance between bygone collector pieces and the sleek modern trimmings. Respecting of what has come before while a clear indication of the importance of keeping up with the times, that tradition no matter how much his predecessor considered it a mark of superiority; it is impossible to escape the reality and need for advancement and modernisation. The office provides some insights into Oliver himself that he wishes the viewer to see while still remaining detached. The overall grey scale of the surroundings are almost soulless in a way, unfeeling.

Oliver’s piercing icy gaze rolls up to Farleigh’s standing figure, sitting at his desk, phone pressed to his ear. He’s facing side on gaze must have been flitting between his monitor screen and out to the city skyline. Oliver’s main executive assistant, Camilla, a firecracker of a woman and a more ruthless gatekeeper than the three headed dog that guards the gates of Hades, had been absent from her desk. Farleigh had been waiting in the wings in till the shebot had gone on her routine break to go make herself her morning sencha green tea. Oliver’s other two assistants he could deal with in his sleep, and they are still too intimidated to really stand up to Farleigh. One of them had protested that Oliver was on some conference call but Farleigh had just breezed past them without even acknowledging the protest, not bothering to knock on Oliver’s glass door before he entered. If Oliver really didn’t want to be disturbed, he’d have closed down all the blinds.

“I’m on a call with the Hong Kong office,” Oliver retorts calmly, totally unfazed by Farleigh storming into his office unannounced, too use to the occurrence during his tenure working at the Catton flagship business. His expression is clearly discerning that he thinks Farleigh is the world’s biggest moron, his statement an explanation that he’s busy and also a demand that Farleigh get the f*ck out.

Farleigh just crosses his arms and stands his ground, waits for Oliver to get off the phone with whatever sex line he’s likely on with, getting his rocks off to some graphically descriptive mysophilia sex talk probably. Clearly communicating with Oliver that he isn’t going anywhere.

In the time that things pause, and they both remain like this, horns locked together Oliver considers him. Taking in the likely fuming expression on Farleigh’s face that he’s doing little to hide. Oliver’s mouth turns downward slightly, the only indication of displeasure. Then his voice comes addressing the people on the phone. “Yeah, I’ma step off for a minute.”

Not waiting for any acknowledgement, he puts the phone down, leaning back in his chair, swivelling to face Farleigh head on, expression clearly communicating he’s got little time for this if his chilly glacial blue eyes are anything to go by. “What.” He deadpans.

“Gavey?” Farleigh repeats, like there needs to be any further context or imparting of information when referencing that sycophantic micropenis having toad. “You trying to run this company into the ground?”

One of the most frustrating things about Oliver is how impassive he often presents himself, to the point that Farleigh often feels like he’d get more emotion if he interacted with a brick wall. Likely the brick wall would also have more f*cking sense as well. So, Oliver’s reaction is the usual, no reaction at all as he says: “I think you’re being a little dramatic.”

Farleigh can practically feel the steam coming out of his ears. His mouth opens ready to fire out his most vicious vitriol. Oliver holds up a hand, communicating that he doesn’t want to hear it. “I gave it to Michael because he needs to step up at some point.” Oliver explains.

Jesus, and did Gavey bend over and spread his cheeks for Oliver before or after the man did that. Oliver gets off on humiliating others sure, but Farleigh doubts even he could get hard for someone as pathetic as Gavey. Oliver’s a conniving little f*ck, once he has an idea, he refuses to let it go, locks in with the single-mindedness of an agitated yappy Jack Russel. He’s got it in his head that Gavey actually has the ability to do anything right without risking bankrupting the company. “If that man goes unchecked, we’ll be heading into a Cambridge Analytica situation and don’t get me started about the fiscal quarter meetings. Someone needs to build naught point five speed into him in order to understand the figures coming out of his mouth.”

Not to mention Gavey’s notions about GDPR and public privacy are f*cking scary. Farleigh doesn’t doubt in some messed up scenario that if Oliver were to promote him to CFO, all their metrics would quadrupole to the size of Europe’s population twice over. That would be due to all the bots Gavey would have created thanks to the unconsented data mining of the British public that he’d approve. Oliver wouldn’t find it funny when the government pulled him up in front of a public inquiry for an excruciating month long bollocking and seven figure fine after the fall out of Gavey’s antics.

And Farleigh is willing to bet the total of his five year long exceeding expectations bonuses that if Gavey had a corner office, he would likely hang some of his favourite trivial alpine village prints by a small-time artist known as Adolf. Talk about a HR nightmare waiting to happen, that would get leaked to the press. He can see the headlines now: Catton Industries employs out and proud Nazi!!!

So, no Farleigh’s not being f*cking dramatic, he’s being pragmatic in keeping Gavey away from any sort of position of real responsibility and leadership within this company. “You want to make everyone in this company redundant Oliver?”

Oliver’s mouth thins, as is his well-known short patience. “It’s not your job to babysit the plebs, Farleigh.”

“Sure, it is, it’s right there in the job spec.”

Farleigh doesn’t need to be condescended to by a man who’s only been in his current role for eighteen months. They may have come up together on the executive track, but they’ve had little to do with each other during their initial time working for the Catton media company. Farleigh’s been working long and hard at his field underneath Ware, while Oliver had been mentored directly by Sir James since the older man plucked him out of obscurity. Honest to God, Farleigh has no idea what Oliver did at this company before Sir James fairy god mothered him into this cut-throat white collar Bezos worshipping Cinderella. Sure, Farleigh had the clear advantage, because nepotism, but things evened out for them once Oliver started to come to work not wearing a suit from Next, not to mention the obvious benefit of Oliver’s Northern European complexion that will always overrule Farleigh’s familial connection.

At first when Sir James had taken Oliver under his wing, Farleigh hadn’t been surprised. Oliver was hardly the first little sparrow to be guided by the business tycoon, that was then gobbled up by the old hawk, broken fine boned body cast out of the sky, when it became clear they could never live up to the impossible expectations. Often Sir James would find these foaming at the mouth, hungry little wretches, like an experiment trying to work out if they had it in them to be ruthless enough, greedy yet cunning enough – did they have it in them not only to be bloodthirsty but actually to be the killer they needed to be?

The reality of it was that often these little projects were used as an incentive to motivate Sir James’s own children into working harder, a good dose of healthy competition, scaring them into believing their birth right was threatened. It also served as a twisted reminder that Sir James believed, that despite being born into it in a lot of ways Felix and Venetia didn’t have the natural instincts that it took to take up the mantle that Sir James held onto with an iron fist. By the time Oliver became properly engrained as Sir James’s number two, both of the Catton Siblings had long become fatigued with vying for their father’s approval, although the need for such a thing never goes away. It certainly didn’t stop the occasional occurrence of infantile fits for attention in two grown adults.

But Oliver had become something more than that.

Farleigh still remembers when Oliver was invited to Saltburn for the strictly family only Christmas break several years ago, the first and last of Sir James’s projects ever to be given the honour. It should have been obvious to Farleigh from that point that Sir James was grooming Oliver as his replacement. In fact, maybe he should have seen it coming long before then. Oliver was no sparrow, he was a bird of prey himself, small and common but impossibly sharp and merciless.

Farleigh is reminded of it now as Oliver reaches into his drawer, revealing a blank envelope in his hand which he slides across his desk to Farleigh. “Maybe for the job you’re thinking, I’ve got something else in mind.”

Swallowing Farleigh’s eyes dart to Oliver’s impassive ones, uncertainty seeping into his body like he’s gone cold. He’s shocked, the last thing on his mind is the potential of the conversation to go this way, figuring Oliver would let him rant for five minutes before throwing him out on his ass. Farleigh’s not an idiot, Oliver’s words in combination with a piece of paper could only mean one thing. “This is seriously how you wanted to offer me a promotion?” Farleigh asks, doing his best to keep his tone dry but his mouth feels like he swallowed a mouthful of sand.

Oliver doesn’t say anything, just waits, hands clasped, and his legs spread in that obscene way, never caring the potential sexual harassment suit it could kick start.

Farleigh licks his lips, curiosity finally getting the better of him as he picks up the envelope.

His breath catches when he’s greeted with the job offer, barely gets past the first line, eyes skimming over the figure details. Then he notices the small off-white bespoke business card, a good thickness and tactile feel of suede coated material. It feels so solid in his hand and he gazes at the dark embossed lettering. Resounding in his mind is the pure shock at reading the words: Farleigh Start, Chief Operating Officer.

So much for keeping his cool, Farleigh is pretty sure he’s not said anything for the last three minutes. Finally giving a weak, “that’s a lot of zeros.”

Oliver remains patient. “That’s your signing bonus, pay is negotiable to a point.” He tells him, so practised like he isn’t giving Farleigh the opportunity of a f*cking lifetime, like he isn’t about to change the trajectory of Farleigh’s life from this moment forward. “Most importantly there’s a shares increase.”

Farleigh can’t help but wince because damn, of course Oliver knows where to get him like a guided target missile.

His mother had been bulldogged out of her shares by Sir James when Farleigh had been only toddler after all the business with his father and her. As his uncle put it due to her ‘poor financial decisions,’ she could no longer be trusted as a reliable asset to the company. Farleigh had his own shares, more ceremonial than anything nowhere near enough to give him a seat at the table. They were part of his trust fund which he could access once he turned eighteen, but any spending was rigorously overseen and approved by Sir James, giving Farleigh little autonomy over it, may as well have never been his.

He'd never really got over the resentment he felt towards Sir James for how he treated his mother, quite happy to allow them to be consumed by financial stress for the majority of Farleigh’s up bringing and into young adulthood, leaving them to live in squaller and impoverished circ*mstances. How he’d have to debase himself again and again, crawling like a dog on all fours begging for scraps. How Sir James was also a man of his era, had no problem playing into the racial connotations of the whole thing, unsurprising given the most blatant right wing vile that he allowed to be televised, printed and posted by his network. Even when Farleigh reached a point where he thought he could extract himself from his f*cked-up family, finally have some independence, Sir James had dragged him back in, putting all sorts of conditions on his trust fund to keep him firmly within the Catton fold.

Faced with the prospect of winning back the percentage of shares his mother once owned and more, well the twisted f*cking sense of satisfaction and retribution it gives Farleigh means more than all the money and prestige in the world. To finally have a piece of the thing that Sir James loves most in the world, that he had denied Farleigh is so f*cking elating.

Not to mention how the man would be utterly beside himself to hear that a black man had been promoted to such a high-ranking position within his company, even his own nephew. No longer does Farleigh serve to function as the decorative diversity tick box that Sir James could parade about and put in front of the cameras when the press circulation started to increase with headlines calling him a racist xenophobic prick. How could you say such a thing, the man would argue, look at my nephew.

“How on earth did you sneak this by the old dinosaur?”

“I have my ways.” Is all Oliver says, not batting an eyelid at the derogatory comment that slips out of Farleigh’s mouth.

Farleigh is surprised to say the least. He’s not seen hide nor hair of Sir James since last year, unless you count The Apprentice reruns he catches. They seem to be the only decent thing on when he finally makes it home from the office at two in the morning, chowing down on three day old Chinese takeout in front of the telly. According to Venetia the man spends his days holed up in the family estate, doesn’t even join for board meetings anymore. And Farleigh does his best to avoid the family gatherings these days with polite but slightly too thought-out excuses which he’s aware he’s walking on thin ice with Elspeth about.

Venetia is more tightly sealed than a Vanguard submarine about the whole thing. Whereas Felix had sang like a f*cking canary after three gin martinis, although with how inebriated he’d been by then, it had been challenging for Farleigh to decipher much from the slurred words.

Ware is the current COO, but coincidentally since Oliver took charge of captaining the ship, Farleigh’s been hearing the man talk more often about retiring to one of the British Overseas Territories. Farleigh knows that’s less to do with the man’s genuine desire to retire, and more so to do with the stiff leather sole of a bespoke Santoni shoe that Oliver is figuratively pressing down as he steps on the man’s throat. Still, “I’ve not been approved.” Farleigh reminds him.

“Farleigh, I wouldn’t have handed you that if it wasn’t a done deal.” Farleigh is reminded that Oliver managed to beat down two hostile take overs since he became CEO of Catton Media. He’s got the board in a f*cking choke hold, with every single one of them convinced Oliver is the second coming of some corporate Jesus with how they smash every fiscal target, the growth in the company in the last year has been something else. Not to mention they are practically neck and neck with the BBC as the most watched broadcasting network in the UK, a thing that Sir James didn’t even quite manage to achieve in his time.

So, when Oliver says it’s a done deal he means it.

“You’re f*ckin’ good at this Farleigh.” Oliver tells him, no floweriness in his tone, he’s not trying to butter Farleigh up. No, he’s saying it the same way someone would say rain falls from the sky. “Time to join the grownups table.”

Farleigh can’t help but break eye contact from that intense gaze, lest Oliver see the gratitude on Farleigh’s face, not because he doesn’t know that he is deserving of this, isn’t secure in the belief that he’s the best person for the job but actually those words, that confidence in Farleigh’s ability coming from Oliver is, as much as he hates to admit it, flattering.

“Throw in a corner office and we can shake on it.” Farleigh will need to remember to bring a f*cking hand wipe when he does to clean off the snake oil.

One corner of Oliver’s lips quirk, smirking as he takes in Farleigh, oozing assuredness, and prideful amusem*nt. Farleigh finds himself matching Oliver’s expression gleefully, feeding off the euphoric high that is starting to set in at this turn of events.

Farleigh is about to ask Oliver to crack open his bottle of sixty-year-old mezcal that he knows the man keeps stashed in his desk drawer, make a toast to celebrate. He supposes he better start trying to enjoy the man’s company now since they’ll practically be working side by side from now on, maybe let himself loosen up around Oliver a bit more rather than keep up the wary observer act. They’ve been like two guarded wolves circling each other for too long.

He doesn’t realise that he’s staring at Oliver for some time, twin expressions of smug delight on both their faces. Oliver’s smile broadens, cheeks dimpling, there’s a twinkle in his eyes which always seems to give him a slightly underlying manic quality. Still Farleigh can’t help but look right back admiringly.

Then Oliver’s phone rings. Not his office phone or his work mobile which rests on a stack of media metric briefs. The ringing comes from inside Oliver’s suit jacket pocket and has him frowning distracted as he answers his personal mobile. “Yeah, go ahead.” He answers gruffly, not bothering to hide his annoyance at being interrupted. He doesn’t bother to directly dismiss Farleigh, but he’s left unsure if this is one of these situations where he should take the hint and leave. Therefore, Farleigh is left there standing awkwardly while someone converses with Oliver over the phone.

“What?” Oliver says suddenly, the hard tone of his voice has Farleigh’s blood running cold. He watches as Oliver’s attention is on his computer screen, tapping away, expression closed off. “Yeah,” Oliver snaps, expression now thunderous, as he exhales noisily out through his nose, eyes locked onto whatever’s on screen. “I’m looking at it now.”

There’s a pause, then, “f*ckin’ hell.” Oliver exclaims, looking f*cking livid as he pinches his nose between his thumb and finger in an effort to keep his composure, white knuckling the phone pressed against his ear.

Farleigh continues to shift nervously, debating making a break for it before he’s dragged into this mess. But he supposes that’s not very future COO behaviour. Oliver’s eyes snap up to Farleigh, temporarily abandoning his phone conversation to address him. “It’s—”

“Yeah.” Farleigh interjects grimly, there’s only one thing in the whole of existence that brings out that look on Oliver’s face, like he needs the highest dose of laxatives known to man.

Without a word he turns the screen in Farleigh’s direction, motioning that he come closer to take a look while Oliver listens to what is being said by whoever is on the other side of the line.

Farleigh temporarily loses track of the conversation Oliver is having, clear now it’s with their head of PR. On the screen is an online breaking news article, at the top a grainy photo obviously taken by a camera phone in low light. Despite the poor quality it’s easy enough to make out the faces of the three people, two males, one female squeezed up together on what looks like a yacht deck, the opulent splendour of the one percent on clear display that it’s practically dripping down the page. Below the photo the punchy title in bold times new roman reads: Sir Catton’s son and heir in bed with the competition?

f*ck, Farleigh should have fled when he had the chance, but then Oliver would have hunted him down like the terminator.

“Give me a minute.” Oliver barks into the phone, pressing it into his shoulder, then directs at Farleigh: “I need you in the room.”

“Hell no.” Farleigh isn’t coming within a f*cking mile of any meeting that Oliver is planning to drag Felix halfway across the world into. He favours his own f*cking sanity.

“Farleigh you’re a lawyer, I need you in the room.” Oliver repeats, tone leaving no room for argument. But then Farleigh’s never been one to just roll over like that.

“No,” he resists, bracing his hands on Oliver’s desk using his advantage of height to tower over the still seated man. “What you need is your hired bloody General Council.” Farleigh isn't doing it, he doesn't have the f*cking bandwidth.

A muscle in Oliver’s jaw is jerking from where he is grinding his teeth, jaw clenched shut, Farleigh’s pretty sure he can see a vein in Oliver’s temple f*cking throbbing. It’s the way that Oliver gets when he decides on a whim to brutally fire a whole department and withhold their severance pay. “You and I both know Henry is about as useful as a f*ckin’ chocolate teapot.”

Farleigh can’t help but agree with him there. “Or a marzipan dild*.” One of the many Henrys’ that are fossilised old relics from Sir James’s time. Oliver has slowly been trying to cull them from the ranks, general counsel Henry is his next target, with good reason the man is like a toddler in a f*cking minefield.

“Fine, but you should know my billables have gone up significantly.”

“I’ll take the hit.” Oliver retorts already back on the phone.

“Farleigh’s in the loop.” Oliver relays, then interrupting whatever the person on the other side of the phone is saying. “I’m done with you. Put her on the phone, now.”

f*ck Felix, Farleigh thinks, what have you gotten yourself into now?

“Yeah, Venetia I need—” Oliver starts, tone hard as nails. “Yeah ‘course I saw the f*ckin’ Wallstreet Journal Article, I just need you to get him… I couldn’t care less if he’s in orbit of f*cking Pluto!” Oliver looks close to upturning his desk, he’s becoming more and more worked up and this is never good. Sir James’s sudden like a f*cking heart attack outbursts were at least something Farleigh was used too. Could learn the triggers and figure out how best to avoid being around when those bombs went off, or at least who to use as a body shield from the blast and shrapnel. Oliver’s moods are an altogether different beast, they were slow but menacing in the way they build and build till you’re practically losing your mind with anticipation. Never sure when you’re going to get taken the f*ck out by the nuclear incineration.

“Yeah, yeah have someone drag him away from the Cristal and out of whatever Swedish supermodel’s puss* he’s currently inside. Vee, I don’t care if they need to recommission a f*cking concord or stuff him in a cannon and fire him in this general direction in a thousand fiery f*ckin’ pieces — get him here by tonight.” Not waiting for an acknowledgment Oliver ends the call, tossing the phone on his desk violently with a clatter.

Farleigh swallows. “So, this is actually happening.”

Oliver isn’t looking at him, having swivelled his chair to the side looking out at the cityscape again, deep in thought. Jesus, Felix has no idea the f*cking hell that’s waiting for him. “I’ll have Camilla send all the interns’ home early.” On second thoughts Felix never pays any mind to the ugly ones.

Blue eyes cut into Farleigh then, to the point he feels like the top half of his body should slide clean off and fall to the floor with a thump. Farleigh knows that sign of dismissal at least, not bothering to waste another moment before he’s turning his back on Oliver and making a swift exit.

Farleigh spends the rest of the day on f*cking edge, barely getting any work done. He googles the flight time from LAX to Heathrow, likely the jet and car ride here will put Felix in Oliver’s office around midnight. The last thing Farleigh wants is to be involved with whatever shenanigans that his cousin has caught himself up in.

The temperament in the office shifts to that of skittish terror as it does when Oliver’s schadenfreude comes out to play. Everyone is walking on eggshells with some even turning on each other, threatening to throw the other under the bus so as to avoid the wrath of Oliver Quick and keep their jobs.

Farleigh stays in his office even over lunch break, not unusual for him, has his assistant get him some sushi from the place round the corner. He barely touches it; the few pieces of rice and nori sit heavy in his stomach like led. Towards the end of the day into the evening, the amount of people in the office thins and with it dies down the Lord of The Flies dramatics.

It's almost midnight when Farleigh sees some commotion near the reception. Farleigh’s office is also on the executive floor and although he doesn’t have a clear view of the comings and goings of visitors, he knows exactly who’s arrived.

Farleigh wanders down the hall, passing the empty cubicles and smaller glass bordered offices. Right to where the reception is, sitting on one of the leather sofas slouched down, legs crossed, hair unruly and sunglasses on inside is Felix.

Farleigh doesn’t announce his presence straight away, taking this opportunity to take Felix in. Someone has clearly forced Felix into a freshly pressed navy pinned striped suit although he’s removed the tie, having stuffed it into his pocket and undone his top few buttons, sun kissed neck and sharp collarbones on display.

His face is turned down where he’s currently leaning his forehead into his palm, he could be sleeping for all Farleigh knew. Felix has never been able to sleep on planes even when he was younger. He’s likely wrecked from the jet lag and whatever state they found him in before shoving onto the plane.

Farleigh does his best to quash down his feelings of concern and protective instinct as he moves forward, allowing the soles of his shoes to sound as he approaches.

“Well, well,” Farleigh drawls in greeting, putting on a condescending tone, “the princess has finally returned to the castle.”

Felix’s face jerks up, Farleigh can’t see his eyes beneath the dark lenses, but he knows they’re wide. f*cking hell Felix doesn’t look good, pale as a ghost, frail and Farleigh feels something twist in his belly, conflicted in himself.

Eyebrows hidden by the thick frames as they are drawn into a frown, Felix looks him up and down like it’s not been several months since they saw each other last. “Why are all your interns so f*cking hideous?” Felix demands, tone irritated and one hundred percent serious.

Farleigh snorts, Jesus, this is what he has to deal with. “Hello to you to Felix.”

“Urgh,” Felix gets out, slumping even further down in his seat, like he can melt into the fabric and escape the whole f*cked up situation that he’s caused. “Couldn’t Oliver have chosen a better welcoming committee? Someone who’s voice doesn’t grade at the frequency that makes me feel like my brain is going to start trickling out my ears.”

Flatterer as always, Farleigh sits down next to Felix, leans close right into his personal space. “Feeling a bit delicate are you,” he booms, not caring how loud he’s being, the only people left in the office this late are essential night staff, several executives and their interns who are trying to impress their bosses. Farleigh leans in closer, voice quieter, warm breath ghosting along the shell of Felix’s ear, taking pleasure in the way he knows it will have him squirming, “princess?”

Felix whines, body twisting itself. Again, Farleigh imagines his eyes are narrowed underneath his shades as he glares at Farleigh’s smirking face. “f*ck you Farleigh, swear to god I’ll aim my thrown-up stomach lining at your couture brogues.”

“You do that, and I’ll kick you so hard you’ll end up travelling back through the twelve time zones you just crossed.” Farleigh retorts sickly sweet. Felix knows he’s got a mean punt; likely remembers from their school rugby days and that one time he kicked him in the balls as a dare when they were seven.

Felix huffs, body folding in on itself slightly, making himself small, which is an impressive feat for someone as long as Felix. “You’re in deep sh*t now.” Farleigh notes when Felix doesn’t say anything for a few moments. He’s testing the waters trying to gage how serious Felix is taking this whole thing.

He’s not surprised when Felix grins at him impishly, the answer to that being not at all. “Oh dear, is daddy angry?”

“I don’t think your father even knows,” Farleigh tells him, then the actual meaning behind Felix’s words hits him a second later. “f*cking ew Felix.” He cringes.

Then one of Oliver’s overeager assistants comes fluttering in, simpering with the need to provide some source of fulfilment. “Can I get you anything Mr. Catton?”

That seems to remind Felix of whatever issue he’s currently nursing as he cradles his head again. “Some oxycodone?” He whinges, then muttering further under his breath except it’s perfectly loud enough for them both to hear. “Or a f*cking anvil.” Maybe Felix should have thought of the painful consequences before shoving as much co*ke as he could up his f*cking nostrils to his blood brain barrier till it’s practically coming out his ears. But no, Felix is too motivated to spend every waking hour of his day strung out and numb to the f*cking world.

“He’s fine Nancy, thank you.” Farleigh interjects firmly, with a tight but polite smile, dismissing the woman.

He turns on the f*cking man child beside him the moment the woman is out of earshot. “Can you maybe try to be a responsible f*cking person for like five minutes, is that so hard?”

Felix moans painfully, head falling back dramatically. “We having this out now?” He asks.

“This is just so f*cking typical of you Felix.” Farleigh snarls, continuing to rant. Suddenly feeling more furious at the man than he realises, walking in here after the f*cking stunt he just pulled not twenty-four hours ago, like it’s nothing and acting like he hasn’t said one word to Farleigh in months. Months of Farleigh ruminating on some of the worst-case scenarios in his head when Felix went radio silent.

“Ugh here we go.” Felix groans, sinking down further in his chair, cradling his head more. “I swear, no one gets on at me as much as you Farleigh, not even f*cking Vee.”

Farleigh pushes through any knee jerk reaction to deny this in order to cover up any feelings of discomfiture. “Yeah, well, maybe that’s because she’s made her peace with the fact that one day, she’s going to get a call that they found you floating in a bathtub in the Four Seasons, with half of the f*cking bathwater in your lungs.”

“Please I’d hardly allow myself to be found dead in a hotel, come on Farleigh – how gauche!”

Farleigh just about manages to hold off slapping him hard across the face, honest to God Felix can’t even take something like that seriously.

“Jesus,” Farleigh notes astonished, shaking his head at him, “you’re f*cked up.” And he is, it became more obvious with every year they got older as Felix buckled under the pressure and expectation of being the heir to Catton Industries, forever in the shadow of his father, the business tycoon, a legacy that he’d never be able to live up to and had no interest in trying too.

It was a relief for all of them, Felix most of all when his father passed him over for CEO. Farleigh thought maybe finally having that impossible weight being lifted would be enough to truly liberate him. But turns out even that can’t reverse all the damage that had been done, it was too late.

Now Felix just fills his life with parties, drugs, sex and questionable decisions. Keeps cycling through it so he doesn’t have to stop and think. Surrounds himself constantly with frivolous cultish admirers to try and fill the infinite void of his own loneliness. It’s been this way for years, so the majority of Farleigh’s sympathy for him has dried up.

Farleigh moves, snatching the black wayfarers off of Felix’s face, his other hand coming to grip harshly at Felix’s chin, touch on the edge of cruel, forcing him under Farleigh’s scrutinizing gaze.

“Hey!” Felix squawks, brown hazy eyes wide as he starts wriggling in Farleigh’s hold.

Farleigh holds him fast; he’s always been the stronger out of the two of them. He’s locked onto him like a dog that’s latched on and gone dead eyed. “What the f*ck are you doing?” Felix complaints as Farleigh drags him in closer, practically into his lap, still f*cking squirming. Farleigh ignores the pointed wide-eyed stares they are now getting from some of the petrified underlings that are scurrying past, taking this sight as a signal to finally call it a night.

Farleigh assesses him further, Felix’s ashen complexion, bags under his eyes, red rimmed, lips dry. He’s lost weight that he couldn’t afford to lose in the first place. Only reason he’s freshly shaved is because someone likely did it for him on the flight over. He looks like a f*cking addict, clearly still coming down from whatever the hell he’s poisoned his body with. Likely he didn’t even have the chance to hook himself up to some IV fluids so he could at least bounce back somewhat.

“I need to check you’re not f*cked off your head on something before I let you go in there.” Farleigh murmurs, eyes continuing to track over Felix while he twitches. If he is on something Oliver likely won’t be impressed and Farleigh is hardly going to allow Felix to be sent into the lion’s den exposed like that. Why couldn’t Oliver have at least waited till the morning?

Felix’s body heaves and then he goes still. Farleigh would almost think he passed out if Felix’s eyes weren’t open, half lidded, meeting his. “I didn’t mean to Farleigh, it’s all just a big f*cking misunderstanding.”

Farleigh’s hold on Felix softens, as does his resolve slightly. “You f*cked up Felix.” He tells the man, firmly not letting up on his reprimanding.

Those sad calf-like eyes, with dark curled lashes gaze up at Farleigh, pink bottom lip pouting slightly. Farleigh can’t help himself but be reminded of Felix as a child, hauled up in his bathroom sobbing for hours after being yelled at by his father, while Farleigh stroked his hair and let him cry salty tears and drip snot into his shirt. How Felix would always manage to convince him to crawl into his bed later that night, Felix’s tiny body parched and exhausted from the tears, Farleigh holding him close to his chest, cocooning him protectively, while beautiful Felix looked up at him adoringly with those expressive eyes, somehow still shining with tears, forever trapped in melancholy.

“I know, I’m sorry.” Felix implores.

“Are you mad at me?” Felix asks when Farleigh doesn’t reply, eyes darting. He leans in closer, right in close to Farleigh, hand clasping round his wrist, tightly, painfully almost. Felix was never good at knowing his own strength, his own power over others. But then he did somewhat because he knew how to play people like a fiddle. Yes, Felix may have never managed to thicken his skin like Farleigh and Venetia, but he’d certainly learnt how to work his divine gifted beauty to his advantage, use it like a woeful tragic maiden luring people in like a siren call. “Really hate it when you’re mad at me Farl.”

Farleigh feels his breath catch in his throat, because f*ck. Is he really that easy? All it takes is for Felix to go extra soft and forlorn, then any resolve Farleigh has just melts away, falling victim to it all like so many before him. Farleigh doesn’t know when it happened, can’t place the exact moment that Felix became so entrenched in his core. Like the idea of life without him became unimageable, regardless of if Felix was flitting in and out of it like a chaotic tornado. This man isn’t just Farleigh’s family, he’s his best friend.

Regardless of any one’s relationship to Felix, he has an amazing way of making himself the centre of everyone’s universe without even really trying.

Despite all his faults, and there are many these days, everybody loves Felix. No one can help themselves but be lured in by his beaming light like Venus in the night sky. And he’ll always mean more to Farleigh than anything. They grew up together, went through so much together. It’s the kind of bond between them that can never be severed regardless of distance or time.

Camilla the f*cking harpy that she is chooses that exact moment to interrupt and announce: “Mr. Quick is ready to see you now sir.”

Felix perks up instantly, extracting himself from Farleigh and is on his feet before he can blink. “Marvellous.” He chirps already making the familiar route towards Oliver’s office.

Farleigh gives himself a shake, taking in a deep breath allowing the neutral mask he’ll require to get through this whole mess to slide back into place, before following in Felix’s footsteps. He catches up to Felix before he enters, each step to get there feeling like a funeral march.

Felix swans into Oliver’s office like he owns it. Despite having the same name as the company and sizable chunk of his own family shares as well as a seat on the board, he owns jack sh*t. Still the level of entitlement in Felix is something that will always remain innate regardless of if he runs his family’s company or not.

“Hi Ollie.” Felix greets, something in his tone slightly breathless maybe from all the cigarettes he smokes f*cking his lung capacity, resulting in him becoming out of breath anytime he moves more than ten steps.

Oliver is sat behind his desk, almost like he’d not moved since Farleigh came to his office this morning. The way his bespoke black suit still hugs his body not a single crease to the silk. Even his hair remains as perfectly quaffed and styled as it was this morning, not a single hair out of place. The tightly contained and put together nature of his physical appearance is slightly disconcerting given he’s been in the office since eight am. Farleigh doubts the heavily regulated exterior matches whatever is going on inside Oliver’s head.

Not wasting any time at all to make himself at home, Felix goes straight for the whiskey like the bottle has him in some sort of tractor beam. Farleigh just barely resists the temptation to grab at him and force him to sit in front of Oliver’s desk, reminding Felix he’s not here on a f*cking social call.

Oliver’s piercing blue eyes track Felix’s movements, looking thoroughly unimpressed as Felix helps himself to his alcohol.

Farleigh had been so caught up in making sure Oliver doesn’t launch a f*cking paperweight at Felix’s head that he misses that there is someone else in the room.

Sitting off to the side, neatly concealed away from the main fray is a young man, fresh out of uni by the looks of his baby clean shaven face and skinny tie. He’s one of Oliver’s many faceless underlings that scamper about after him and look at Oliver like he’s the second coming of Christ, or maybe it’s the antichrist. With the innocent cherub type look and mop of brunette waves he reminds Farleigh a bit of a younger Felix, but not quite because even at twenty-one Felix would never be caught dead in an ill-fitting suit. But then with the f*cking state Felix is in even the handmade Kiton he’s wearing can’t make up for it. Only adds to the f*cked up little rich party boy persona, that Felix wears like a second skin these days.

Idly Farleigh wonders if Oliver chose the minute taker to purposefully mess with Felix. If so, Oliver’s more f*cked up than Farleigh thought. To Farleigh it serves as a subtle reminder of what Felix once was, the importance and position of standing he once had in this company, from a time when everyone was convinced it would be Felix sitting behind that desk, not some usurper like Oliver. But now this note taker has more access and significance than Felix, it’s a total mindf*ck from Oliver, the whole thing lifted right from a page out of his playbook of mind games.

In classic Felix fashion he fixes only himself a drink not bothering to ask if anyone else would like one. Then he plants himself down in front of Oliver crossing his legs demurely.

Finally having Felix in front of him Oliver addresses him. “Felix” His tone clipped. It’s odd, Oliver doesn’t greet him like any of the other members of the board or Sir James’s associates. Normally Oliver greets them warmly, with a firm handshake unless they give him a reason to skip over any sense of decorum. Propriety doesn’t mean respect in Oliver’s eyes, that much is clear, but it is a necessity to get what he wants, to lull people into a false sense of security before he starts spraying poison.

It's never been that way with Felix as far as Farleigh has observed. Perhaps something to do with how they’ve known each other for nearly a decade. They’re not friends, Farleigh wouldn’t even deem them acquaintances. But of course they’ve become familiar over the years, as any member of Sir James’s inner circle has with Oliver, the man’s f*cking shadow. There’ve been plenty of times that Oliver has sat across the family dining table to Felix at Saltburn, even joined the family for holidays at their chateau in the south of France. Oliver’s the most included ‘outsider’ the Catton family has ever had.

Yet it still stands, blatant for Farleigh to see that Oliver doesn’t respect Felix, won’t go to the effort to even bother trying to hide it. But then Farleigh can hardly blame him, as it doesn’t help that Felix treats Oliver like he’s one of his footmen.

Felix has now clocked that they are not alone, sour faced little kitten as he hooks his wayfarers to his breast pocket. Thank Jesus, he had some sense to not put them back on. Farleigh’s pretty sure Oliver would have reached over and snapped them in two. “Why’s there,” Felix says eyes flickering from Farleigh to the corporate Doogie Howser in the corner, “I thought it would be just us?” Felix says to Oliver.

Felix pulling out his signature pout won’t have the same effect that he’d managed to get out of Farleigh. Oliver is f*cking immune to sentiment, devoid of normal levels of human empathy. The man probably eats puppies for breakfast and punts new-born babies off of London Bridge as a relaxing pastime. “Jason’s here to take some minutes. I want Farleigh in the room as our lawyer.”

“Okaaayy,” Felix responds, suddenly looking a lot less relaxed than he did a moment ago, his generous measure of whiskey now forgotten from where he’s placed it on a coaster on Oliver’s desk. “But this is feeling all very official. Like unnecessary.”

Oliver’s pale eyes, add to the flatness of his unblinking stare, intimidating as ever. Farleigh’s positioned himself directly out of Oliver’s eyeline, on the periphery but even he can feel himself shifting like he’s under the uncomfortable weight of that gaze. Farleigh had elected to position himself between Oliver and Felix but stood far back enough leaning against a bookshelf, another one of Oliver’s Scandinavian bland modern furnishings. But he’d rather be out of the fray and leaning against hard uncomfortable wood, than sitting on Felix’s other side right in the line of fire.

“What did you expect?” Oliver says finally, after letting Felix stew in silence for a few moments. Oliver’s likely read and memorised every interrogation technique manual in existence to get this level of hostile menace down. Farleigh’s willing to bet he’ll likely write some sort of autobiography on how to get away with unethical corporate practices and breaking every employment and human rights law in the world. No doubt when Oliver eventually croaks it, at the ripe age of a hundred and five, Satan himself will welcome him down into the fiery pits of hell and ask him to sign a copy. Before promptly resigning his position and offering up the job to Oliver.

“I’ve not broken any laws.” Felix protests, immediately jumping on the defensive. Farleigh eyes the pencil pusher as he scribbles away on his notepad. He can’t help but feel the creeping sensation making its way up his stomach like bad Indian food, that this meeting is going to be a complete disaster.

“I’m sorry,” taking his own turn to interject, Farleigh bites out, “I forget who in the room graduated from Harvard law school summa cum laude.” Top of his motherf*cking class, beating out all the rich pompous white folks from California and Long Island. Farleigh had no interest in training as a lawyer, but Sir James had insisted on it as a condition of him paying for Farleigh’s education. So, if Farleigh was going to be forced by the tyrannical f*ck to do something he didn’t want then he was at least going to show the old dinosaur that he could f*cking excel at it. Spite and bitterness have always gotten Farleigh far in life. They’ve got a good energy to them, positive f*cking motivators.

Felix pretends to look confused. “Cum in what now?” Like he didn’t read f*cking classics at Oxford and isn’t fluent in Latin and Ancient Greek. This is all some big joke to him.

“Strike that would you?” Farleigh directs across the room at Oliver’s boy wonder, a moment later the sound of pen striking loudly over paper can be heard.

Oliver quickly brings the discussion back on track. “We’re all ears Felix,” Oliver intones, relaxing back into his chair, ready to listen to whatever Felix throws at him. “How did you end up at a yacht party with the daughter and her husband of the man who just tried to force a hostile takeover of your father’s company, only six months ago?”

Hearing the words and the reality of the situation finally being voiced out in the open like that, has Farleigh clenching his fists. This is not good; this is f*cking not good. His own eyes remain locked on the pen that is currently noting down Oliver’s words verbatim. How badly Farleigh wants to go over there and snap that sh*tty ballpoint in two.

He needs to watch himself; he’s expected to be here as the neutral party. He’s not here to be Felix’s mother hen, he’s here to do his job. But this feels like actual torture, like watching baby gazelle Felix being chased down by blood thirsty cheetah Oliver, while Farleigh is supposed to sit here and watch, remain level-headed while letting nature run its course.

“India’s an old family friend.” Felix starts, speaking slower like he’s choosing his words carefully. But Felix isn’t used to this level of scrutiny. He won’t be able to keep up this strategy for long. “I mean I didn’t know she was going to be there.” f*ck, Farleigh thinks, he should have prioritised coaching him not checking to see if his pupils were dilated.

Oliver’s not a lawyer but he has fifty of them on his payroll that are working in that capacity, so he knows exactly the question to ask next. “So, she just so happened to be at the party?”

“Mm hmm,” Felix hums, shifting in his seat, switching his legs round then returning them to their original position. His energy is jittery but part of that is just how Felix is, not necessarily to do with the subject matter. “I ran into her and her husband.”

“Of all the superyachts in all the world.” Oliver’s tone is amused, mocking. There’s a sharp glint in his eye like a shark that’s tasted blood in the water. Amusem*nt isn’t a reassuring thing on Oliver. He wields it like some sort of weapon, made to disarm, cut things back to reveal the most vulnerable and exposed places, uses it to toy with his victims before going in for the unexpected killing blow.

Farleigh doubts Oliver had the most apt social skills growing up, seems like the type that didn’t have many friends in school, not when all he does is see people as tools and interacting with other human beings as an occasional necessity to get what he wants. He hides it well underneath all the charisma and suave attitude that he likely gained through decades of observation and studying. But when you strip that away all you're left with is something hollowed out, like staring into a black echoless pit, feeling nothing but dread at the sight of nothingness being reflected back.

Tapping his fingertips out on the chair arm in an annoying repetitive rhythmic pattern, Felix drawls, “Malibu is a small place, Oliver.” Dragging out the syllables of Oliver’s name. Farleigh can’t help but wince at his condescending tone, Jesus Christ. “Besides Annabelle said it would be a good time and there might be some old uni friends there.”

Oliver’s eyebrows raise minutely, the micro expression enough for Farleigh to catch his curiosity. “She did?”

Farleigh’s nails are digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood, he’s surprised he’s not dripping red onto the glossy hardwood flooring of Oliver’s office. “Oh, did I mention India and I also went to uni together?” Felix says innocently, one of his legs has started bouncing slightly, nervous fidgeting now for sure. Felix has never been good at sitting still regardless.

Oliver’s face pinches together then, betraying nothing but it’s enough for Farleigh to know Oliver’s caught on to the same thing as him. “So, you knew she was going to be there?” Oliver asks coolly.

“Don’t f*cking answer that.” Farleigh interrupts, directing his words at Felix but is glaring daggers at Oliver.

Oliver holds up his hands in faux surrender. “I’m just trying to get a clear picture of what we’re working with here.”

“Seriously Oliver watch it.” Farleigh fires back, crossing his arms not willing to back down from this. To just stand there and allow Oliver to lead Felix into accidentally confessing to some sort of corporate criminal liability.

“Ohhh,” Felix smirking sharply finding their exchange endlessly entertaining. “Far thinks you’re being mean to me Ollie.”

f*ck Felix, Farleigh would feel better about helping him if he wasn’t such a stuck-up prick about it that clearly isn’t taking any of this seriously. If Felix’s father were here that smile would be wiped clean off his face. “Farleigh’s just doing his job to make sure we all still have f*cking capital by the end of this conversation.”

Rolling his eyes at that, Felix gives a huff slouching down in his chair as a hand comes to massage his temples. “You guys are being more dramatic than the cast at my boarding school's rendition of Medea, honestly it’s not a big deal.” He grumbles.

They’re clearly not getting anywhere. Best to reschedule at a time when Felix isn’t being an arrogant little brat. Where was the remorse and regret Farleigh saw earlier? Where is Felix’s actual evidence that this situation is all a big misunderstanding? Because so far, he’s shown them none of that.

Farleigh is about to suggest that they reconvene when there’s daylight out again when Felix pipes up suddenly. “I mean it’s her husband, Freddy you need to worry about, he was the one that kept going on and on about that little embezzling scandal that daddy apparently covered up for 'Henry the Harasser' in the early 90s,” suddenly turning to Jason as if remembering he was there, his tone snooty, completely purposeful in his clear insubordination, elongating his words as he says, “oh, embezzling, E-M-B—”

“Oh my f*cking god.” Farleigh moans, head in his f*cking hands, pretty sure blood is coming out of his ears from the aneurysm Felix just caused.

Oliver’s expression is thunderous, takes one look at Jason, jerking his head towards the door. “Out.” He barks.

The kid doesn’t need to be told twice, just gives a simpering yes sir, then off he goes.

“Bye Joshua.” Felix calls in farewell over his shoulder as the glass door swings shut.

There’s a moment of silence where no one says anything. Farleigh doesn’t dare look at Oliver. Farleigh can feel where he’s flushed with heat at the sudden turn of events, his heart racing with how fuming he feels.

Breaking the silence – “he’s cute.” Felix notes now the young man is gone, eyes slightly narrowed on Oliver the accusing tone in his voice betraying any casual air he’s trying to keep up.

Oliver doesn’t acknowledge the comment, instead meeting Felix’s gaze unwaveringly. “I need you to take this seriously.” He says voice deadly, eerily calm.

Felix runs a hand through his hair, the action only serving to ruffle his wild wavey locks even more, expression bored. “I am taking this seriously Ollie.” Then he’s leaning forward slightly in an attempt to bridge the gap between the two of them from either side of Oliver’s desk. “So seriously.” He promises.

With great effort, Oliver unlatches his jaw, words slightly gritted due to how clenched up he is. “India invited you to that party.”

Farleigh exhales noisily out of his nose, tensing up. Communicating that he’s not happy about Oliver’s resolve to continue pulling on the tread. Oliver’s pale eyes dart to him for a brief second, uncaring, then back to Felix before he resumes. “Because her husband wanted to poke us with a stick.”

Felix seems to consider this, continuing to dig himself into a deeper hole despite Oliver’s clearly livid f*cking mood. “Well, when you say stick, and when you say us.” Then Felix sucks on his bottom lip crudely.

“Quit trying to be a smart arse.” Oliver grounds out, the regional London accent slipping out of his words, replaced with something harsher and brusk. The kind of brogue that Farleigh is used to hearing off uneducated tradies and rough looking guys looking for a fight down the pub.

Felix just leans forward, being drawn in by some magnetic force. Farleigh notices how Felix’s pupils are blown wide, like he’s just done a bump of clean-cut co*ke. Is this his new drug of choice? Getting off on the fact that he’s pushing Oliver to his limits. “I’m doing more than trying, aren’t I? Succeeding I’d say.”

Oliver leans forward suddenly, the movement jarring with how still he’s been up until this point. “Get anymore mouthy with me and I’ll put you over my knee.” Sounding deadly serious, the statement meant to cause mortification.

Felix’s eyes flutter, back arching slightly as he uncrosses his legs, gripping his thighs as he slowly slides them open. The movement so natural and blatantly wanton, not at all a surprise coming from Felix but it’s the fact that it’s directed at Oliver that has Farleigh’s mouth falling open in shock. “Is that a promise?”

“f*cking hell Felix.” Farleigh groans out helplessly, how could he forget about Felix’s weird f*cking attempts to push and prod at Oliver like a dissected frog. It’s shouldn’t surprise Farleigh that Felix is willing to take it this far in order to get under Oliver’s skin, he’s seen it before over the table at Saltburn. But the fact he’s pulling it out now in a twisted way to get himself out of trouble is nothing short of outrageous.

Felix rolls his eyes at Farleigh, seemingly not caring that he put on such a lewd display in front of his own cousin. “You two should be more grateful you know; I’ve uncovered a corporate scheme we should be breaking out that fancy tequila you much prefer over whiskey.”

“Shut the f*ck up.” Oliver finally snaps seething, voice raised, anger pulsing in the room, the walls practically vibrating with it. And maybe they are, Oliver having raised his voice loud enough that it shook the glass, wouldn’t be the first time.

It has them both jumping with the sudden louder volume, Felix looking startled, hand pressed to his chest. Oliver continues no longer bothering to keep the venom out of his tone, aiming it right at Felix. “You don’t seem to understand the sh*t storm you’ve created, sh*t which we now need to mop up.” Oliver doesn’t hold back now, sticking in the knife and digging it in deep, twisting it violently. “You’re getting involved in things that don’t concern you anymore. For what? You were bored, wanted to remind us all you still existed?”

Farleigh flinches at the harshness of the words, in total shock that Oliver would go in on Felix to such a degree. Sure, he’s watched Oliver take chunk after chunk out of people till there was nothing left, but never did he ever think he’d see the day that Felix would be on the receiving end of it. The son of the man who made Oliver his successor.

All of Felix’s earlier boldness is quickly shrinking away, as he curls in on himself like a flower deprived of sunlight. “Well, it worked, didn’t it? You’re finally paying attention.” One last attempt to keep some sort of control over a situation that has been slipping through his fingers like a handful of sand.

Oliver rises to his feet then, and Farleigh can’t help but take a set forward, impulsively not even sure why or what he would do. Oliver makes his way round the desk, perching on it. The whole time Felix’s nervous gaze is locked on helplessly tracking his movements.

Oliver’s situates himself right in front of Felix, positioning his lap at the height of Felix’s eyeline, meaning that Felix must lift his chin up to meet Oliver’s eyes, or he’d be left awkwardly staring at Oliver’s groin area. It’s so blatantly sexualised, toxic macho bullsh*t and with Felix in the rare position of finding himself conversing with another person he has to look up to, it plays right into the power dynamic that Oliver is laying on thick. Reminding Felix that Oliver is the one with all the power and he has nothing.

Shaking his head, Oliver’s eyes directed downwards at Felix, watching him like he’s some naughty puppy who just pissed on the carpet, Oliver regards him with disappointment. Things are quiet for an uncomfortable stretch, while Felix looks up, his neck probably twinging with the strain at that angle, no clue what to do with himself. Looking desperately like he wants to stick one of his fingers in his mouth to self-sooth, maybe expects Oliver will reprimand him for it if he does, like Sir James always used to.

“When will you ever learn to behave?” Oliver speaks coldly.

Farleigh doesn’t think he’s ever seen Felix so still in his life, like he’s been frozen up by the frostiness of Oliver’s pale gaze. “Truth is you’re acting like a petulant child who has no idea what he’s wandered in to.” Oliver continues, eyes hard like a thick layer of ice over a lake. To be trapped in freezing cold water underneath it, no matter how hard you beat your fists against the ice, it just won’t break, yielding to nothing. “Were you planning on telling either Farleigh or I about the Palo Alto tech start-up 'fickle f*ckin'Freddy’s' so keen for you to join as an investor? What's that, his fourth attempt at another dumpster fire of entrepreneurship this year?”

“Oliver—” Farleigh just about chokes out, his feet leading him forward when they should be leading him away. He doesn’t need to be here for this, he f*cking doesn’t want to be. The less he knows about any of this the better. It’s not just to cover their ass legally, but it’s for Felix’s own good as well, that Farleigh hear nothing further about what he’s been up to, the stupid f*cker. And yes, selfishly Farleigh doesn’t know how much more he can take of Oliver figuratively kicking the sh*t out of Felix before he f*cking snaps.

“Don’t f*ckin’ move Farleigh.” Oliver’s lilting voice deceptively soft, composed yet the command has Farleigh somehow rooted to the spot despite Oliver’s eyes never leaving Felix. Oliver wants to keep him here, wantsFarleigh to witness this for reasons that have massively surpassed any professional motives.

“Unlike you, I wasn’t born f*ckin’ yesterday, Felix.” Oliver’s tone isn’t conversational anymore, having shifted to full on scolding, except that’s too light a word for what Oliver’s doing to Felix now, he’s full on tearing the man to shreds. Better men than Felix have been reduced to tears by Oliver when he gets like this: sweating, blood and spinal fluid, pissing themselves in terror. “The last thing I need to deal with is you throwing your f*ckin’ dummy out of the pram because no one stroked your f*ckin’ co*ck recently.”

The sheer depravity of Oliver’s words isn’t anything new when he gets like this, but the fact the man has no issue speaking that way to dress Felix down like a naughty schoolboy is completely unhinged.

Oliver leans forward, positioning himself lower into Felix’s eyeline to say his next words, like he’s lecturing a toddler. The action results in his trousers gathering up slightly as he does, material becoming baggy around his lap and upper thighs. “All I need from you these days sweetheart, is to turn up and vote how I tell you, and to smile and look pretty for the cameras, making sure you’ve wiped off all the powder from under your nose.” The derogatory words fall out of Oliver’s mouth like poisonous poetry, every inch of them hitting a perfect bull’s eye of their target, achieving maximum damage. “Leave the work to the people that actually know what they’re doing,” then checking Felix is still with him, “got it?” He adds mockingly.

Not waiting for a response Oliver pulls back, the silk of his trousers now pulls tight, and Farleigh hopes to God he imagined the way Felix’s eyes linger, gaze down to Oliver’s lap. “You really can be such a f*ck up sometimes, Felix.” Oliver notes crossly, leaning back on his desk slightly, taking in Felix’s shell-shocked face – looking glassy eyed, complexion somehow devoid of even more colour than when Farleigh greeted him at reception. “Now, you’re going to get your little uni friend’s husband on the phone for me, and him and I are going to have a little chat.”

Every part of Farleigh feels sick, he feels sick at what he’s hearing, sick to his stomach at what he’s seeing. Sick that he’s somehow been made a part of this by Oliver forcing him to watch as a bystander.

Oliver co*cks his head to the side. “What do you have to say for yourself now?”

“I’m sorry Oliver.” Felix’s voice comes out cracked, eyes cast down, cradling his hands in his lap, Farleigh’s sure he can see his shoulders trembling, body doing his best to hold back tears, looking like an identical version of himself every time Sir James had him in the exact same position. It’s f*cked up, and Oliver must know exactly what he’s doing, the f*cking psychological maiming that he’s using to break Felix down.

Finally, Oliver turns to address him, tone cool and all business. “Farleigh can you give us the room.” It’s not so much a request as it is an outright order.

And Farleigh feels bad, because he springs into action instantly, all too happy to get the hell out of there. “Gladly.” He snaps out, can’t bring himself to look at Felix again or there’s a chance he might not be able to get his feet moving to take him out of this f*cked situation.

Back in the safety of his own office is when the full force of what just happened hits. Not realising how close he’d come to being thrown into full blown panic. Farleigh stands, his back pressed against the wall of his office while he takes deep belly breaths, doing his best to calm his racing heart, ignoring the tightness in his chest, the cold sweat that had broken out across his body.

He doesn’t know how long he’s there for, but it must be a while when he comes back into himself. He grabs his phone, thumbing the first contact he can think of, focusing on the dialling tone to stop his thoughts from spiralling out of control.

The call connects and an amused voice answers. “Felix finally getting his spanking?”

Farleigh huffs out a relieved sound at hearing Venetia’s voice then grasping onto her joking like a lifeline. “Yeah,” he gets out clearing his throat from where it’s gone dry. “You’d think if he was that desperate for it, he’d just pay for it.”

Venetia hums on the other line of the phone. “I blame it on our father, he never really provided Felix with a strong reliable masculine role model.” Or an understanding of the market index, Farleigh thinks furiously.

Farleigh collapses back into his office chair, he feels wrung out, body totally depleted from this f*cked day. “Would be nice if Felix maybe realised the real-life consequences of his f*cked-up actions.” Farleigh complains, his frustration and anger at Felix coming out despite seeing him so thoroughly beaten down. “Perhaps I need to bring out the stock share PowerPoint again. Stock drops mean less money, which means less money in his f*cking pocket, ergo less money that he can spend on blow.”

Hearing a brief rustling on the other side of the line gives Farleigh pause, looking at his watch he curses internally. It’s one in the morning and he realises he has no idea where on earth in the world Venetia is right now, likely his call woke her up. “I’m sure Oliver will sort him out.” Venetia murmurs, “besides I’ve already got a PR strategy outlined that will put as back up there with Amazon by the time the Nasdaq opens tomorrow morning. I’ll send it over for you to take to Oliver asap, maybe that will soften him up a touch.”

Farleigh can’t help but smile, this woman here is why Gavey will never be involved with a fiscal decision at this company in his lifetime. Sure, Gavey is the numbers guru, but Venetia can run circles round him with her models, she is able to actually think in the long-term, hold in mind prediction and risk. She’s a big part of the reason why Oliver’s strategy to grow the company’s success had actually been fiscally profitable, and not ended in them totally crashing and burning.

Like Farleigh she didn’t have much of a choice in her career path, it was the role she was forced to play. When they’d been fresh out of university Farleigh was convinced that Venetia would struggle to rise to the challenge, she was always the more volatile of the Catton siblings, was the one deemed in the family to have ‘issues.’ But something changed in Venetia. A shift, like she realised that the only opinion that mattered was the one she held of herself. Sir James had always admired her ballsy business moves, said she had the courage to take a gamble which Felix so sorely lacked.

It was strange from then on how Venetia seemed to be on an upwards trajectory, actually managed to achieve some form of stability. But like the balancing of scales things for Felix plummeted – and that’s been the Catton sibling status quo ever since.

“You are a queen.” Hopefully Oliver will be done with Felix by now and Farleigh can provide him the PR strategy as a way to disarm him. Meaning he’ll let up on Felix.

Farleigh’s eyes trace the off-white ceiling of his office, suddenly aware of how box like the whole space feels, claustrophobic. f*ck, he’s dying for a cigarette. His thoughts wandering back to earlier, the cigarette burn in Oliver’s mahogany desk, Felix’s shoulders trembling as he looks up at Oliver absolutely gutted. “What’s your take on him?” Farleigh asks suddenly.

“Who,” Venetia inquired, puzzled tone “Oliver?” She asks further and Farleigh hums in confirmation.

Venetia pauses, then, “what do you want to know?”

Farleigh knows Venetia and Oliver have some very brief history. Out of her, Felix and Farleigh, he would say she is the one closest to the man, most familiar with him at least especially given how closely they work together. Venetia had a habit of luring in Sir James’s little pet prodigies. So, when Oliver was first invited to Saltburn it had been little of a surprise one evening to look out his bedroom window to the sight of Oliver kneeling between Venetia’s legs with his forked tongue wriggling between her thighs.

Gleefully, Farleigh had informed Felix the next morning. Knowing the information would hardly get Oliver turfed out, but at least Felix would be up for being an accomplice in making the man’s life a living hell upon learning that he’s taken advantage of the Catton hospitality to help himself to Felix’s sister.

Felix’s reaction had been disappointing to say the least. Not even pausing to stop sucking on his cherry flavoured lollipop, regarding Farleigh with total disinterest. It’s Venetia he’d drawled what do you expect? Like Farleigh doesn’t notice Felix fluttering his eyelashes and baring his neck at every pretty boy in a suit that his father brings home to visit.

As far as Farleigh knew, any involvement Venetia had of the sort with Oliver was well and truly in the past, with some brief gossip that came out around the time Venetia’s ex-husband filed for divorce. But Farleigh had purposefully avoided getting involved when those accusations were being thrown about.

“Do you trust him?” Farleigh asks her.

Venetia gives a dry chuckle through the phone. “Kind of a silly question in our line of work, isn’t it?”

Then she sighs, thinking for a moment. “What can I say? The guy’s clearly got the knack for it, brutal little sh*t when he needs to be, strategic enough, thoughtful and has just the right amount of bravado without coming off as a total Steve Jobs.” A beat, then her voice comes quietly. “Besides, Daddy must have seen something good in him to go with him in the end. Probably the hardest gig in the world to get.”

Farleigh waits, tries not to get frustrated over the fact that she’s not given him a direct answer. “No one knows where they stand with Oliver, he keeps people on their toes and when he wants you to know you’ve f*cked up then he’ll for sure let you know. It’s why he’s so good at his job.” That Oliver runs this company and commands his employees in a manner that clearly sits under the umbrella of psychological torture just shy of Guantanamois f*cking insane. Yet he’s still managing to excel the business into the stratosphere, heights that even when Sir James was in his prime couldn’t quite reach. All in all such character traits including and especially those that are morally reprehensible are likely why Felix is nursing some sort of twisted crush on Oliver, now that Farleigh thinks about it.

Because he has her being so open with him, a thing that is so rare for Venetia, Farleigh can’t help but ask. “You ever wish it was you?”

“f*ck no.” Venetia retorts instantly with a humourless laugh. “I’ve long since lost a desire to run this corporate human meat farm.” She continues, “besides the f*cking legacy always felt like a bloody albatross around Felix and I’s neck whenever daddy would pit us against each other for the winning spot.”

“Oliver’s neutral, detached. Means he can make the tough calls without reactivating any f*cking childhood trauma.”

It certainly puts it into perspective, Farleigh only wishes he had the same option to extract and throw himself into a void of nothingness like Felix or detach from the whole nightmare as cleanly as Venetia seems to have done. But instead, Farleigh is left feeling like this, on the verge of a f*cking panic attack seeing a man play out a role so close to Farleigh and Felix’s former tormentor. f*ck, he should really get in touch with his therapist.

“And congratulations by the way.” Venetia’s voice comes taking him abruptly out of his thoughts. “You’ve already got my vote.”

“Thanks.” Farleigh replies it sounding weak to his own ears, then he can’t help but laugh because honestly, after everything he’d almost forgot about the promotion.

“When will you be back?”

Venetia gives an exasperated sigh. “I’ve got a layover in Athens till early morning, should be in the office first thing, but I’m warning you I’ll be on Tokyo time. Might want to keep Felix and I separate, or I’ll end up ramming his head into a copy machine.”

Oh, thank God, strength in numbers. “Good, perhaps you can help me rein in Vladimir Quick.”

“Dealing with Comrade Oliver is sort of your job now Farleigh.” Venetia sing songs. Don’t remind him, what the hell has he gotten himself in to?

“I know, it’s just.” Farleigh pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. “I’m used to my corporate narcissists being a certain way, alright. Openly prejudiced to everything that’s not a straight white upper class born and bred protestant Englishman and with a temper shorter than an atom,” the stress of the night loosening up his filter, “no offence.” He tags on as a half-hearted after thought, not like Venetia hasn’t heard or said worse things about her father.

“None taken.”

Farleigh let’s out a long exhale. “I don’t know I’m just struggling to figure this guy out.” And it’s really getting to him.

Venetia’s silent for a moment, then her voice comes back in. “Well, you don’t need to worry about Felix, him and Oliver get on better than you think.” Whatever that means.

Farleigh doesn’t keep her on the phone much longer. He’s more than ready to call it a night and if given the option would love to just crawl into bed and not leave for a week. Figuring Oliver must be done with Felix by now, Farleigh prints out the PR docs that Venetia sent over, fully prepared to drop it off to Oliver, or at leave it on his desk if the man has gone home for the evening. Knowing he can always email him a copy on the uber ride home.

Part of Farleigh hopes Felix is still here that way he can make sure he gets home safe, perhaps watch over him for the night. Lord knows what f*cking spiral Oliver’s treatment will have sent him into tonight.

The office is deserted now, only the security guards that station themselves down at the lobby entrance will be left tonight. No one is going to be foolish enough to choose tonight as the night to catch up on some work. So, when Farleigh catches sight of the blinds of Oliver’s office all down he doesn’t think anything of it. Figuring the man must have gone home for the night having finished his verbal bollocking of Felix.

The glass door of Oliver’s office being slightly ajar gives Farleigh pause, however. Normally Oliver’s very anal about locking up his office before he leaves for the day.

Then Farleigh hears something, the noise not quite carrying, muffled by the enclosed walls around the office. Farleigh’s legs take him closer, starting to become aware of the feeling of his heart beating firmly in his chest. At first, he figures it’s nothing, his sleep deprived brain playing tricks on him. He’s fully prepared to abandon his task and take this as a sign to head home for the night.

But then he hears it again, his ears pricking up to the sound, now he’s closer it sounds… human. Like a human sound, a groan maybe. The door is ajar enough that he can take a peek inside.

In all honesty he’s not sure what he’s expecting, perhaps Oliver still finishing up some late-night calls, maybe him towering over a sobbing Felix who is curled up into the foetal position, hell even a semi-conscious Felix handcuffed to one of Oliver’s radiators.

So, the last thing Farleigh is expecting to be greeted with is the sight through the cracked open space of the door is Felix bent over Oliver’s desk and Oliver balls deep inside of him. Farleigh’s pretty sure his brain temporarily goes offline from the pure shock of what he’s seeing.

Felix and Oliver. Felix and Oliver. Felix. And. Oliver. When the f*ck did this happen? How the f*ck did it get from Felix on the verge of tears with Oliver standing over him like some sick twisted pseudo paternal figure, to: well, this.

From the angle that Farleigh can see it’s pretty obvious from one glance what is happening. Oliver has Felix splayed out over his desk, suit jacket abandoned, white cuffs of his shirt rolled up to his elbows to reveal his wiry forearms. Other than that, he’s still fully clothed, trousers and underwear only far down enough to just get his co*ck out in order to f*ck into a partially dressed unruly looking Felix, who’s trousers are around his ankles.

Farleigh knows he should leg it, get out while he still can and preserve whatever sanity he has left after today. Yet his traitorous eyes and damn curiosity can’t help it. His eyes can’t help tracing over the arch of Felix’s back underneath his sweat-soaked lavender shirt. The way his soft brown hair is falling over his eyes, moving with every thrust that moves his body.

Above Felix, Oliver pants like a dog, normally immaculately styled hair tussled, starting to curl and fall loose into its natural state from where it’s resisting the gels hold. Looming and all-consuming in the way he’s positioned over Felix like his shadow, like an extension of him. But that’s not the case, he’s so very separate like a virus attacking a host. Yet all Felix does is welcome this parasite in, mewling like his touch is the best thing in the world.

Oliver licks his lips like some hungry predator, still even now, appetite no way near satiated. “You going to behave now huh? You going to be good for me?” Oliver asks.

f*ck, Farleigh can hear it, the wet sounds of their f*cking, the impact of skin against skin as Oliver’s hips beat against Felix.

“Yes Ollie.” The words punched out of Felix, as he claws at the smooth wooden surface below him for purchase. Hearing that breathy quality in Felix’s voice has Farleigh’s nerve endings alight like Greek fire. The cool glass where his forehead falls to and rests against doing nothing for him.

Oliver leans further forward, not pausing in his thrusts but they become shorter, pace snapping forward and backwards as he speaks close to Felix’s ear, voice just as audible. “I don’t believe you.” He says gently.

Rearing back up, Oliver’s grip on Felix tightens, one hand pressing down on Felix’s upper body, forcing his back to bow further, ass tilting up further to receive the brutal thrusts. “Hmm, is this what I need to do?” Oliver says between pants. “To get you to keep behaving?” He continues biting back a moan as he grinds into Felix, dragging him back exactly how he wants him, while Felix cries soundlessly, useless below him. “You need my dick that badly you’re willing to make the front pages just to get it.”

“Please.” Felix chokes out, pleading with Oliver.

Farleigh’s not sure who his attention is more locked onto now, the feel of utter awe and desire burning through him as what he’s seeing, his brain bypassing any sense of shame or disgust. He’s not even sure he’s fully processed that what is happening in front of him is actually happening.

“I didn’t ask you to f*cking beg.” Oliver snaps, the grip he has on Felix, looking f*cking painful, not caring about the precious, fragmented thing he has managed to coax underneath him.

“You like that I’m f*cking you over your father’s old desk? In his old office?” He continues roughly, the force of the thrusts make it seem like he’s f*cking through Felix’s body, so uncaring for the damage he could cause, is causing. Twisted up in consuming his own pleasure, getting off on inflicting pain in every manner. “’Course you do, the way you’re practically pinching my co*ck off baby.”

Something in Farleigh’s stomach curdles. Caught between revulsion and arousal, so many conflicting feelings warring inside him, not to mention the ugly, nasty weight of jealousy making him feel like he wants to hurl. He feels so trapped, so helpless. Hearing things he can’t unhear, seeing things he can’t unsee. The way Felix’s flushed face twists in complete and utter pure, unadulterated pleasure will forever be burnt into Farleigh’s mind. But it’s the fact that it’s Oliver f*cking Quick that’s the cause of it, that it’s Oliver saying the worst f*cking things and Felix enjoying it.

Felix’s mouth parts in a gasping sob, rather than reacting to the words with horror, they only seem to make him more needy, leaning into the precision of Oliver’s thrusts.

Oliver’s a talker it seems, Farleigh figured he’d be the type. Likes the sound of his own voice too much, gets off on having people at his mercy even when he’s getting his rocks off. “All the hassle you caused, lost us a couple hundred mill likely put some people out of their jobs all so you could get stuffed full, you’re so f*cked upFelix.” Oliver says darkly.

“You don’t understand the real world,” Oliver grunts out, there’s a frightening fire behind his eyes, like Farleigh’s never seen before. Something about the intensity in his eyes, feeds right into what Farleigh can feel has been nestled in his chest, has been carrying for so long, making it expand, spreading out within his body till it’s covering every inch of him. “Just some dumb little slag sucking on a silver spoon all his life, huh? Just trying his best to make his daddy proud.” Tone low and mocking.

Felix gives a choked off moan, as Oliver moves inside, backward, forward, backward, forward, unbending, incessant – making Farleigh feel insane.

“Want t—to make you proud Ollie, O—ollie.” Felix sobs out, drooling into the mahogany wood, breath hitching just trying to catch up with himself but utterly failing in the face of Oliver’s rough handling. Farleigh feels something in his chest shatter at hearing such a revealing statement, how Oliver has cracked Felix open like this, broken him down and made him vulnerable, through rough sex and humiliation. Made him so disinhibited, completely mindless that he’d say anything.

Oliver’s movements slow, Farleigh watching as he seems to process the words yet not letting up in his cruelty as he says: “you say the dumbest f*cking things, Felix.”

Felix’s shirt ruffles as Oliver’s hand strokes his side. Farleigh can’t quite see, but he shivers, imagining that touch feather light tracing up Felix’s bare ribs.

Oliver leans down, sucking on the nape of Felix’s neck, like a hungry dog. Tasting the sweet skin like a poor man trying gourmet for the first time. “You’re going to be good for me from now on,” he murmurs, over Felix’s whimpering, breath hissing over sweat slick skin like a f*cking serpent.

Then, Felix cries out, neck bared as Oliver’s teeth sinks into him, clamping down hard before pulling back, “aren’t you?” Oliver asks more forcefully, lips curled in amusem*nt. His eyes bioluminescent in the lowlight, only exaggerated by the backdrop of London’s flickering city lights like a million little fireflies.

“Ollie, O—Ollie, Ol—" Felix is trembling, head shaking back and forth as he chokes out great, heaving, sobs; breath hitching, eyes wet with tears – totally wrecked.

Oliver laughs, f*cking laughs. Low, breathy, and mean. “I should know better really, I’m not going to get anything out of you now, am I?” Farleigh hates how turned on that taunting tone makes him. “f*cked you too dumb.”

And it’s true, Felix is totally far gone, let’s Oliver force him down, cheek plastered against the desk by the fist he has locked into his hair. “Ollie!” Felix begs, eyes screwed shut as Oliver’s brutal thrusts sink into him hard, unrelenting. Felix hiccupping now with the force, never quite able to catch his breaths between wet sobs. “Fuucck— daddy!” The cry falling from his raw red bitten lips.

Farleigh’s body jolts. Jesus, Farleigh can f*cking smell the stink of sweat and sex now, he’s not imagining it. Even only watching through this tiny gap, he imagines it somehow sticking to his clothes, incriminating him further.

Chuckling Oliver’s tongue comes out to wet his lips, “that’s— f*ck, that’s what gets you hot doesn’t it?” Leaning in close Oliver hums, “imagine it all you want baby.” Then Oliver shifts one of Felix’s legs higher, opening him up wider. “That’s it love,” Oliver grunts, “squeeze around me just like that.” f*cking into tight heat, balls slapping against skin, his teeth bared like a threatening animal.

Below Oliver, Felix is coming to pieces, little high keening cries, his body spasming and shuddering as he c*ms. God knows, how long they’ve been going at it. How long before they were on one another before Farleigh had left this office? Felix is still shaking like a leaf when he mumbles out into his braced forearms, “love you.”

“Jesus,” Oliver says sounding like he’s annoyed. “Felix do you even know what you’re saying?”

One of Farleigh’s hands curl tight, nails digging into the flesh of his thigh, flashes of pain shooting through his body.

Felix’s mouth is open, proper colour back on his face now, every so often giving shuddering sobs both from the org*sm just wrung out of him and overstimulation from Oliver still moving inside him. “f*ck,” Oliver curses, shoving Felix back down when he tries to wriggle away from the toomuchtoomuch sensation. “Stay still for me love, just need to take it till I cum inside you, yeah? Then you’ll feel all better.”

Felix f*cking whines, his body clearly pleading for no more but nods his head continuously, totally lost in his mind.

Oliver keeps shoving into the shuddering body below him, Farleigh can see his forearms flexing from the strength required to keep Felix in place. The flush of red on Oliver’s chest is growing, his grunts getting shorter, more animalistic. The chance they could be overheard the furthest thing from his mind. The slaps of skin against skin, getting wetter, rhythm becoming irregular.

The feeling of arousal continues to build in Farleigh’s belly, sending waves of sensation that has every zone of his body running hypersensitive. His eyes are locked more on Oliver than they are Felix at the moment, Jesus, the man’s a f*cking beast.

Then, Oliver gives a drawn-out guttural groan, a rough thrust forward and he’s pinning Felix’s hips to the desk as he spills inside him. It can’t be comfortable for Felix, pained whimper escaping his lips as he’s shoved against the hard wood, breath stuttering as Oliver’s hips snap back and forth in a few more slow rolling, firm thrusts. Then, holds, gripping tight as he keeps himself locked inside.

Neither of the move for a moment, panting bodies interlocked. Oliver’s face is hidden from where he’s slumped forward slightly, chest heaving, loose locks of hair having fallen over his eyes. Farleigh can see the rise and fall of Felix’s defined shoulders and upper back, his body resting totally lax out over the desk, eyes closed breathing so deep that for a moment Farleigh wonders if he’s passed out.

Oliver is the first to come out of this state, drawing back, pale blue eyes the brightest beacon of light in the room. “Christ,” he scoffs, chest still heaving as he looks down between Felix’s legs, pulling his co*ck out, “you always look so good with my cum between your legs, it’s enough to almost make me forgive you, almost.”

A half-hearted moan comes from Felix, the sound almost giving Farleigh a fright so caught up in Oliver’s words. This isn’t their first time doing this.

“I’m of half the mind to just leave you here like this,” Oliver muses, “anyone could wander in and find you.” His blue eyes shift over Felix’s still bent over body, eyeline going slightly higher but not quite to where Farleigh is standing behind the ajar door. Still, he can’t help but shift further into the darkness obscuring his body more from view, just in case.

He should leave, he needs to leave. And suddenly Farleigh is shocked that the thought to do so only occurs to him now. Jesus, he’s f*cked up. He just watched his boss and cousin f*ck. Not just out of morbid curiosity but he’d got caught up in it, enjoyed watching it. But it’s just sex, right? Put two people f*cking in front of another person and they’re going to respond. Helpless body urges sh*t, that’s what this is, that is what this is.

Oliver had now extracted himself from Felix, wiping himself off uncaringly on Felix’s shirt before tucking his soft co*ck away, giving Farleigh a peep at the sizeable piece of equipment. f*cking figures, either Oliver was overcompensating with his confident asshole demeanour or actually had a reason to act like a smug egocentric son of a bitch.

There’s no tenderness in how Oliver interacts with Felix even postcoital, Farleigh’s not sure what he was expecting from the emotionless cyborg, maybe a little bit of humanity towards the person he’s just been inside, who clearly for reasons beyond logic has some sort of fondness for Oliver.

Briefly Oliver moves out of Farleigh’s view, he hears the sound of Oliver’s belt clinking, then the sounds of him moving about his office, rustling of papers and clothing.

Slowly, Felix seems to come back into a sense of awareness, having caught his breath. It’s an impressive feat to see Felix pull himself up on shaky arms, quivering like a new-born foal as his eyes dart around the room looking for Oliver. He looks so lost, so helpless and an absolute mess. Hair sweat soaked and wild, his shirt open to reveal his body pink and blotchy, white stained cum sticking to his stomach. Despite it all Farleigh feels his mouth water and heat pooling in his belly and groin.

Then Oliver comes back into view, fully clothed and impressively well put together, his whole suit back in place, forgoing his tie. With great effort, Felix turns, those gorgeous dark eyes looking up at Oliver adoringly, glazed over post f*ck and exhausted. Oliver isn’t paying him any attention though, too busy tapping away on his phone. Farleigh hates it, but there’s something about Oliver in this put together disinterested state that makes him hot, just as much as the sight of Felix even though Oliver’s nowhere near as debouched, it’s infuriating and alluring in equal measure.

Felix is now doing his best to get Oliver’s attention, resting his hands on the man’s chest, sliding them upwards towards his shoulders as he tilts his head back, chin out as he leans up. Oliver’s eyes snap to him, jerking back when Felix starts to close the distance between their lips. “What do you think you’re f*ckin’ doing?” Oliver demands angrily, warm breath ghosting over Felix’s face.

Felix’s eyes flutter, not knowing what to do with himself, he dips his chin then looks back up at Oliver for help, needing a hint so he can figure out what Oliver wants to hear. “I—I,” Felix’s voice is rough, worn from overuse. Frowning as if looking for the answer but failing miserably. Not to mention he can’t seem to still the trembling in his legs, f*cked till he’s quivering like jelly.

Oliver regards him unblinkingly, Felix’s grip flexes from where it now rests at his waist. Oliver on the other hand makes no move to touch him in return. “I’m not your f*ckin’ boyfriend.” Oliver says in that lilting soft voice, more dangerous than all the angry snarls.

Then, quick as an adder strike Oliver seizes him, grasping at his chin between thumb and forefinger, his grip strength looks strong, unyielding in the way it brings Felix in closer. “You want me to kiss you like I’m your boyfriend you’re going to need to earn it.” He has Felix in so close now, their lips only an inch away and while Felix looks like there’s nothing, he’d love to di more than to close the gap, Oliver keeps him immobile. “You want to earn it?” Oliver inquires gently but his tone smug, knowing.

“Yes,” Felix gasps out helplessly in a way that’s so desperate it’s embarrassing. “Y—yes Ollie, yes.” Ever the addict Felix just can’t help himself, would do anything to score a fix, it’s pitiful.

Oliver’s cutting eyes dart back and forth over Felix’s face, analysing him. “Then you need to do exactly what I tell you from now on. Understood?”

Instantly Felix nods his head. “Yes.” He manages to say airily, frantic in his need to satisfy Oliver.

Then Oliver’s touch turns gentle as does his gaze, cupping Felix’s cheek, thumb stroking back and forth across his defined cheekbone, the base of his palm resting in the hallow of Felix’s slightly gaunt face. But it’s all just manipulation, Oliver can wrap the barbs of his tactic in the softest of gentle cashmere all he wants, but Farleigh can still see it for exactly what it is.

But Felix clearly can’t, a long help captive that found himself caught up in the spindles of Oliver’s spider web. The whole thing sealed when Oliver speaks, pride in his tone as he smiles broadly, pleased, “I knew my good boy was in there somewhere.”

Felix’s eyes flutter closed, leaning further into Oliver’s touch, expression going slack with pleasure at the praise, like he’s about to cream himself again. Oliver has him, he has the inner workings of Felix all figured out and is playing him like it’s second nature.

While Felix is distracted Oliver’s attention returns to his phone, tapping away before bringing it to his ear, not removing his hand from Felix’s cheek. Coming back into himself, Felix pushes himself into Oliver’s space, clinging to him, mouthing at where Oliver’s shirt collar is open at the hollow of his neck, big, long fingered hands, sliding down Oliver’s torso to his groin, rubbing at him like Felix wants to coax him into another round. All the while Felix rubs himself against Oliver’s side like a cat in heat, whispery little whimpers escaping his mouth.

Oliver’s lacklustre tone drones into the phone. “Yeah, I need someone to bring the car around, I should be— hang on,” Grasping onto Felix’s locks he gives a harsh yank, eyes cast downwards in clear irritation not caring that he causes Felix to give a pained yelp. “Get a hold of yourself for f*ck’s sake.” He snaps at Felix giving his hair another, tear inducing pull. When he sees that Felix has calmed down, buried his face into Oliver’s chest, still mouthing at his shirt covered body he returns to his call. “I’ll be down in ten minutes, yeah straight home, I won’t be alone.” Then he ends the call.

Felix’s eyes snap up, surprise on his features. Oliver meets his gaze impassively, like he’s waiting for something. “What do you say?” Oliver prompts.

Felix swallows, shifting slightly from where he’s still perched on the desk. It doesn’t seem like he would be able to stand anytime soon. Quite happy to remain where he is, face tilted up while Oliver looms over him. “Thank you, Oliver.”

Something in Farleigh seems to unfreeze then, whatever has him rooted to the spot finally having some give. He backs away from the door as quietly as possible. When he’s certain he’s out of hearing distance he turns his back, bolting, dumping the crumpled-up paper of Venetia’s PR strategy on one of Oliver’s assistants’ desks as he goes.

Mind racing, Farleigh heads straight for the exit, not catching any solid thought or sensation before he’s out in the cold cool night air, a welcome feeling against his feverish skin.

f*ck, he feels wired now. He knows for sure that sleep is going to be impossible. The lingering buzz of heat, and the way he still feels so f*cking turned on makes him want to go to a bar somewhere, and find some faceless person to bring home, so he can burn off this lust fuelled intoxicating energy. A warm body to distract from the guilt and the shame and the awful f*cking envy that are roiling about inside him like flames eating up at oil.

Most of all, as Farleigh starts to walk in the direction of his flat, hands buried into his pockets, he wants to take a can of gasoline and strike a match to the building he just exited and watch the whole thing go up in flames.

~

The next morning, or only a few hours later really, finds Farleigh not at all rested waiting in the lobby of Catton Media at the lifts. The triple shot of espresso coursing through his veins is the only thing that is keeping Farleigh upright and somewhat functioning at this point. However, what then comes with a tired sluggish brain forced to be active, is the lack of impulse control he has in replaying the events of last night.

The flickering images of Oliver f*cking a bent over Felix on his desk, Felix’s beautiful face slacked over in complete euphoria, Oliver’s commanding and rough grip, the sound of that unflinching lilting voice speaking right into Farleigh’s own ear. f*ck, how the hell is he going to look Oliver or Felix in the eye when he sees them.

There is a dinging sound signalling that the lift has arrived. Farleigh is grateful that the building seems to be quieter this early in the morning. Allowing him a brief spell of solitude as he makes his way up to go hide away in his office and pray that no one comes looking for him.

Fully prepared to have another day of hell on earth in Trump Tower Farleigh enters the lift, pressing the button on the metal panel for his floor.

Completely distracted by his thoughts Farleigh doesn’t catch the closing doors suddenly halting to slide back open.

Farleigh’s eyes track upwards to look at the very last person in the world he wants to see.

Oliver steps into to the lift, crisp cut suit and gym bag slung over his shoulder. Hair still slightly damp from his morning shower after another day of his regimented five day a week workout routine, like some Instagram corporate gym rat. “Morning.” He says acknowledging Farleigh shortly, greeting him as he would at the start of any normal working day.

“Morning.” Farleigh retorts curtly, whole body tensing up like rigor mortis has set in. Hoping that Oliver doesn’t notice the fact that he’s gone into some sort of tripod stance like a skittish meerkat.

The lift doors slide shut, and Farleigh watches any chance of escaping slip through his fingers.

An awkward silence descends, or at least it’s all awkward on Farleigh’s side of things while Oliver remains blissfully unaware next to him. Farleigh hopes that Oliver is in one of his weird intense moods where he pretends no one around him exists, too lost in schemes and plots for total world domination.

But then no such luck when Oliver turns to him. “You look exhausted Farleigh,” he notes, frown on his face clearly any concern performative, “late night?” He inquires.

“Umm, yeah.”

A dimple begins to form at Oliver’s cheek as his lips quirk up. “Was it worth it at least? Did you have fun?”

Total confusion clouds Farleigh’s already weary mind, that Oliver would care how his evening was after he left the office. It’s not often that Oliver manages to get the upper hand of their exchanges but it’s mainly because Farleigh still can’t bring himself to look Oliver in the eye for longer than a couple seconds. “Huh?”

“I’m asking if you had fun.” Oliver asks innocently. Then, “did you enjoy the show?”

Oh. Oh, f*ck.

He can’t mean what Farleigh thinks he means, can he? “You—” Farleigh splutters, his brain stuttering to a complete stop like a stalled engine.

Oliver leans over to the panel, pressing a button which has the lift shuddering to a sudden halt, the alarm ringing in Farleigh’s ears ominous and final before it goes silent. “You really shouldn’t spy on people Farleigh,” that soft lilting tone full of malice, “it’s very rude.”

His mind skips over any denial and goes right to: “what the f*ck Oliver!?” Farleigh snarls.

What the f*ck is this? Is Oliver going to tear him a new one now, didn’t get his fill demeaning and beating down Felix yesterday.

But Oliver isn’t looking at him in anger or disgust, all Farleigh can see is piercing interest, unnerving in its intensity. “You never answered my question.”

This is f*cked up; this is so f*cked up. What the hell is Oliver’s angle? Farleigh can’t work it out. “I—” His heart beating like a presto tempo drum.

Oliver drops his gym bag by his side with a thump. Squaring himself up to Farleigh, “He’s a sight to behold, isn’t he?” Stalking forward, his approach menacing and unrelenting. “Shame about how noisy he gets.” Oliver f*cking leers, licking his lips like some famished hungry hyena that has managed to box in his meal.

“Had to stuff my tie in his mouth a few times, only thing that keeps him quiet. But then it’s hard to hide the drool stains and teeth marks on the material when I’m in a meeting later.” Farleigh feels his back hit the wall, not realising in till it is too late that Oliver’s managed to corner him. Too busy computing Oliver’s words.

Jesus Christ, what the f*ck is this? Why in the f*ck is Oliver telling him these things? Is he trying to trick Farleigh into providing him with some humiliating detail that he can use to blackmail him later?

“But there are other ways to keep him quiet,” Oliver contemplates, those sharp eyes penetrating Farleigh’s very being, “maybe next time you could help.”

“You’re—” The realisation dawning on Farleigh. It’s a sick f*cking game Oliver is playing. And the expression on Oliver’s face, like he’s lapping up the idea. Farleigh can feel something burning in his chest, crawling up his throat like highly corrosive stomach acid. “You’re serious, you’re f*cking twisted, f*cking sick.” Farleigh spits into that smirking mottled face, like the venom coming from his mouth would even be enough to deter someone as toxic as Oliver.

“Really Farleigh,” Oliver chuckles breathily. f*ck, he’s too close now, the solidness of his fit body too tantalising, making Farleigh feel like he actually does want it pressed against him. “You’re over selling the denial a bit too much, methinks.”

Farleigh’s eyes dart up to the CCTV camera above. God f*cking knows who is seeing this. But the second they probably saw Oliver in the lift they likely turned a blind eye, that’s what everyone in this company does. Turns away from Oliver and his messed up bullsh*t.

But Farleigh refuses to just roll over like everyone else, hell no. He brings himself up to his full height, looming over Oliver, staring him down unflinchingly. “You f*cking hurt him.” Farleigh scowls, letting Oliver know he f*cking sees him, he’s got the disgusting little freak’s whole MO figured out.

Infuriatingly Oliver only stares up at Farleigh through his eyelashes, haunting blue doll eyes, entitled f*cking wry smile. But then Farleigh’s words must hit the mark, because Oliver cracks, giving a demented laugh, ugly sneer twisting on his face. “What the f*ck do you know?” He bites back, teeth snapping like he wants nothing more than to rip out Farleigh’s throat for his insolence. Let him f*cking try.

“Felix hardly likes it soft and sweet; he just loves it when things are mean.” Oliver continues callously, whatever resolve in him to hold back breaking.

Despite the explicitness of Oliver’s words that Farleigh knows he can never unhear, there is something so gratifying about breaking Oliver down this way, finally cutting through his reserved assertive armour. It has Farleigh feeling powerful.

“I don’t think that’s any surprise to you really; you remember how Sir James gets after all.”

Oliver’s doing his best to regain any upper hand over the situation, spewing out filthy accusations to remain in control, doing whatever he can to get a reaction out of Farleigh. Two can play at that game. Leaning right into Oliver’s space, their breath intermingling. This close Farleigh can smell the woody oud scent of his body wash from his morning shower. “You’re f*cking messed up, Oliver.” Farleigh breathes into his face.

Oliver’s pupils are blown wide. Farleigh nearly laughs in his face, pathetic little man, he’s getting off on this. “Yeah, well I don’t get off on the thought of f*cking a member of my own family though, do I?” The smug f*cking grin on his face making Farleigh want to ram his fist into it over and over till his nose cracks underneath the force, teeth f*cking breaking and blood squirting.

That one is a blow. It leaves Farleigh reeling, head knocking back into the metal wall. “I’m not indulging your sick f*cking games; you perverted little freak.” Why did Felix have to be infected by this f*cking cancer.

Oliver co*cks his head, looking eerily like some peculiar exotic bird. “No?” Oliver asks softly, then leans right into Farleigh’s space again hand coming to cup Farleigh over his slacks boldly. “You sure about that?” He probes, the feeling of his breath ghosting over Farleigh’s chin as his other hand grasps at his shoulder.

Well, that is something. “I’m pretty sure,” f*ck, Farleigh entertains him a little, allows Oliver to rub him off a bit, the feel of Oliver’s firm grip and manicured nails squeezing his co*ck. Farleigh’s been pent up, without any proper release despite wanking himself off in the shower this morning, that only took the edge off so much. “This firmly counts as sexual harassment.”

Oliver chuckles, “you feeling harassed, Farleigh, huh?” That rough voice speaking close to his ear, setting his nerve endings on fire. “Cause all I can feel is how ridiculously hard you are at the thought of shoving your co*ck down your cousin’s throat while you watch the noises, I ring out of him while I f*ck him full.”

Farleigh had been fighting off the image the first time that Oliver had spoken it out into the space between them. But God, he’s weak to not imagine it now, utterly helpless because Felix, being with Felix that way, no matter how wrong it is, Farleigh wants that, desperately wants it.

“You just love to hear yourself talk, don’t you?” Farleigh forces out in an attempt to not linger on his thoughts. Does Oliver seriously think Farleigh’s going to spread his legs for him and let him have his way with him in this elevator. Oliver had it easy when it came to Felix, Farleigh isn’t as easily seduced.

“Get your hands off me,” Farleigh shoves at Oliver, but the man doesn’t go far. The haze that had descended over his mind eases now that Oliver isn’t stroking his dick anymore, the man is clearly some sort of crazed sex demon. “You’re disgusting.” Farleigh glowers, lips curled, looking down at Oliver like the piece of pitiful little sh*t that he is. He hopes the rejection leaves Oliver’s blood boiling.

Now it’s Farleigh’s turn to lose it. “You’re f*cking insane, drunk on your own megalomania, f*cking knew what you were the moment I met you.” Farleigh points at him accusingly.

“And what am I Farleigh?” Oliver asks airily.

“A pathetic undeserving little leech,” Farleigh spits at him, it’s only right that someone finally take Oliver down, he’s doing the world a service really. “Who somehow managed to cheat, lie and manipulate his way into my f*cking family. You’re worthless, nothing better than the filth underneath my shoes, you sick little freak.”

Rather than act like a normal human being, Oliver’s eye lashes flutter like Farleigh had just spoken the most amorous sentiments. Breathing ragged, those round baby blue eyes enamoured with him, it’s genuine reaction not for show. Makes him appear soft, deceptively delicate and Farleigh wants to wrestle him to the f*cking ground. “I like it when you call me names.”

“I f*cking loath you.” Farleigh growls, livid at Oliver’s freakish reaction and angry at how it’s all only adding to this magnetic draw he’s feeling towards him. Not quite sure if he wants to spit in Oliver’s face or bring him in close, suck on his tongue and sink his teeth into that red, pouting lower lip.

The words seem to only turn Oliver on more as he smirks. “I know.”

Reaching out to the last trump card he has in his deck of insults. “Felix wouldn’t even look at you twice if the drugs hadn’t eaten up most of his neurons.”

Smile turning cold, tone bitchy, ah he’s hit a nerve. “Whatever you need to tell yourself Farleigh.”

“You don’t f*cking deserve to breathe the same air as him.” Seeing the spit land on Oliver’s skin, the way his tongue darts out to lick the tiny specs that land close to his lips. Sad twisted little creep, pathetic f*cking baby.

“You know I can’t quite work out if that pisses you off more, or despite your better judgement how much you want me.” Oliver says, finally calling this what it is. “Call it a close tie, shall we?” Oliver mocks.

“And you are right,” Oliver agrees casually, tone matter of fact. “I don’t deserve to breathe the same air as him, but I do – and it’s f*cking sweet Farleigh. Better yet I’ve been inside him, f*ckin’ branded him which is more than can be said for you.”

Farleigh can’t hear this anymore; he’s done being Oliver’s plaything. Attempting to barge past him, only for Oliver to just shove him back hard. Farleigh grunting with the impact he makes back against the wall, tailbone aching in pain with the force. He pants wide eyes, f*cking hell Oliver is fast, and strong for a smaller guy.

Oliver’s panting too but less so with the effort of pushing Farleigh back and more so with how worked up he is, eyes wild and unpredictable. “I’m not done,” he snaps, and Farleigh feels a stab of fear. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve been having him right under you and his father’s noses. How he crawled into my bed one night at Saltburn mewling for my co*ck like a whor*, how f*ckin’ loud he screamed when I finally gave it to him, pretty sure he wanted his daddy to hear us.” Oliver rants, holding Farleigh fast, his touch burning, branding Farleigh like the same way he imagines he managed to mark Felix. “How he came to me after every time his father gave him a verbal beat down hard in his boxers, begging to choke himself on my dick. Now the old bastard has gone senile and Felix can’t get to sleep at night without hearing my voice telling him he’s a good boy.”

That strong unyielding grip is digging into Farleigh’s shoulder, hand on his hip keeping him pinned. And Farleigh’s just helplessly grasping at Oliver’s plump biceps, muscles working, shuddering under his touch. Farleigh’s chest is rising and falling in sync with Oliver’s, eyes locked onto each other’s, locked into each other.

“That’s not even the most f*cked up part Farleigh, he visited his dad a couple months back, went to his bedside at Saltburn where they’ve got carers for him round the clock, the old goat gets confused you see, rarely has any lucid moments these days.” Farleigh barely registers the confirmation about Sir James’s decline in health or the fury that Oliver is more in the loop than him. Too busy caught up in the other details, the anticipation of all the f*cked-up information that Oliver is imparting. What more could there possibly be? How many more layers could there possibly be to Felix’s f*cked up daddy issues.

“Must have mistaken Felix for Elspeth, or maybe old James has been getting randy with the nurses, but the muddled old dolt took one of Felix’s hands and brought it to his own dick.” Oliver laughs unhinged, absolutely manic and wild eyed finding the whole thing so bloody hilarious. “Felix got such an awful fright came running immediately to me. But f*ck,” Oliver gasps, caught up in the memory of it, it’s like he’s not really talking to Farleigh anymore, more so like he’s performing to a captive audience. “Once I calmed him down, he couldn’t help but grind himself up against me, rode my co*ck for hours that night, squeezing his f*ckin’ tit*. He came more times in one night than he ever had. The way he f*ckin’ wept straight after so ashamed and disgusted with himself, I couldn’t help myself I was so hard I had to keep f*ckin’ him, and he just let me. Let me f*ck him all night long till he passed out still whining my name.”

Oliver’s f*cking everywhere, all around Farleigh, his smell, his warmth, his touch. Farleigh’s pretty sure he can taste the man on his tongue that’s how much he’s managed to infiltrate his senses. Seeped right into his brain, his words, his revelations sending Farleigh spiralling into outer space. It’s sick, this whole thing is sick but not for the reason it should be. The wrongness of this has everything to do with Oliver and whatever twisted sh*t he’s brought out in Felix.

Oliver draws back slightly, voice low like he’s imparting some sort of secret to Farleigh, like the things he said before weren’t violating enough. “And you know it’s funny, because I do think he wishes I really was his father. Who knows maybe when the old bastard finally croaks things might just end up that way, Lady Elspeth does so love making up the flimsiest f*ckin’ excuses to drop by my office for a regular visit.” Jesus Christ, f*cking hell.

“But I’ve no doubt that dear old dad f*cked him up so bad that if his father actually asked him to get on his knees and open his mouth, he’d do it. That’s how f*ckin’ devoted he is to his daddy, Farleigh, still willing to do anything for his approval.” Farleigh feels sick hearing it, the lust twisting in with revulsion making him feel lightheaded. The fact that Farleigh can’t quite separate Oliver and Sir James within the words, speaks volumes.

Oliver blows air out gently from his lips, mockingly. And just to make things even more f*cked up, he leans forward tracing the tip of his bulbous nose back and forth over Farleigh’s jaw. “So, if I’m a sick little freak what does that make him, Farleigh? Hmm?” Oliver smacks his lips, sniffing sharply. “You’d better hope he’s as f*ckin’ twisted as I am for you to stand a f*ckin’ chance.”

“Now that I think about it Farleigh,” Oliver hums quietly considering, thoroughly enjoying having him at his mercy. “You didn’t have the best relationship with your dead-beat dad either?” Eyes darting down to Farleigh’s lips, f*ck if he closed the gap Farleigh might just let him, “and all the teacher co*ck you sucked in boarding school didn’t change that, did it?”

Farleigh feels his body go lax in Oliver’s hold, the fight draining out of him, Oliver’s finally won. Oliver catches it of course, sick satisfaction setting in.

When Oliver pulls back, Farleigh throws one last grenade. “You’re a f*cking psychopath.” Is all Farleigh can think to say, the shock of Oliver’s sick revelations, of being faced with the confirmation that this man is even more of a deranged f*cking maniac than Farleigh could ever have thought. Farleigh hears about it of course, the types that this job attracts. He is willing to bet he’d score relatively high on some test himself. But Oliver, he ticks every single one of the f*cking boxes.

Farleigh flinches when Oliver suddenly lets go of him, moving back an arm’s length out of reach. Dusting himself off, straightening out his suit and smoothing away any creases, Oliver zips back up his human meat suit to hide his demonic reptilian body underneath. “You don’t need to worry about Felix.” Oliver says cool and casual as he picks up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. Leaning over to click the button to get the elevator moving again. “He’d do anything for me Farleigh, don’t think he’d need as much convincing in this situation as you might think.”

Watching, still keeping himself plastered against the wall encase Oliver hits him with another jump scare level revelation.

There’s a ding signalling that the doors are about to open, Oliver glancing at him before he leaves, expression like he’s just navigated some boring civil conversation. Drawing a hand through his hair. “I’ll see you later.” He throws Farleigh’s way then expression darkening as he gives a lewd wink, then he’s stalking out into reception.

Farleigh stumbles out of the elevator the moment he’s sure the coast his clear. Bypassing his office completely he makes his way to the men’s bathroom. It’s clear when Farleigh gets there, it is for more than just splashing some water on his face. Oliver’s f*cked up tales, twisting inside him like a pit of intertwined snakes.

The way Farleigh still feels feverish with lust despite it all, has him retching into the toilet, bringing up nothing but bile and his morning coffee. It’s all f*cked up, everything. Somehow Farleigh manages to get a hold of himself, enough to get himself back to his office.

He chugs down a full bottle of water and a packet of mentos to get rid of the taste of bitter vomit out of his mouth. Farleigh remains hidden away in his office like a coward, wondering if he can get away with pulling a sick day. Before he can make that decision however, his assistant calls him over the intercom to remind him he has a board meeting that he needs to attend.

Goddamn it, maybe Farleigh should just resign. Would likely make his life a whole lot easier.

Later after the whole thing, with Farleigh voted in as acting COO, he walks to Oliver’s expressionless office like he’s going to the gallows. He should be feeling pure jubilation, but everything feels blunted, like he’s just signed his own death warrant. He enters with a sour expression on his face, fully prepared to meet Venetia and Oliver with an air of aloof cattiness.

Of course, that doesn’t last long when he’s greeted with the sight of a giddy looking Felix who greets him jovially. “Faarleeigh!” Felix calls, ingulfing him in a warm hug. “Congratulations!”

Farleigh let’s himself be pulled in, feeling the sharp jutted bones of Felix’s skinny body, the knobs of his protruding spine. Felix clings to him while Farleigh pats his back awkwardly, doing his best to not touch Felix too much, no matter how much he wants to cling back. Tutt in displeasure at the twig like state of Felix’s figure.

“Knew it was only a matter of time mate.” Felix boasts, not letting Farleigh slip away so fast, squeezing his shoulder, head co*cked and smiling adoringly at him.

Farleigh swallows, not knowing how to respond. “Uh thanks.”

“Did you f*cking see Henry’s face? Racist little twat looking like someone had rammed a cactus up his arse.” Felix hoots.

Then Oliver joins them, approaching silent as the grave, coming in close at Felix’s elbow. As if sensing his presence Felix turns his head to look at him, smiling demurely. “Congratulations Farleigh,” Oliver addresses him, blue eyes gleaming, “well deserved.”

“Suppose that puts you directly under Oliver, Farleigh?” Felix says.

Farleigh goes stock still. “What?”

Felix’s expression is the very model of sainthood. “In the pecking order you know?”

“Eh yeah, sure.”

Venetia clears her throat, where she’s standing by Oliver’s desk. Looking impeccable in her pristine white pants suit, looking incredibly refreshed for someone who should be hideously jet lagged. She’d had all the board members f*cking clenching their sphincters the moment she’d walked into the room, even the ones the joined over zoom from totally different continents. The fear she and Oliver can inspire in a room of grown adults is really something. “We’re not out of the woods yet, I’m not convinced Henry won’t dump his shares in retaliation, likely buy out Ware before he does, try and take Duncan with him.”

Oliver and Venetia jump right into shop talk while Felix mentally checks out, expression glazing over already bored.

Oliver looks over at Venetia, announcing to the room. “That’s why Felix is remaining to smooth over any wrinkles as we transition.”

Farleigh’s mouth falls open in total disbelief. “You’re joking?” Oliver meets his gaze impassively; brow raised all bravado. No, he’s not joking – f*cking hell. “That’s an awful idea.”

Felix chooses that moment to come out of his little dwam. “Hey!”

“No offense.” Farleigh retorts half-heartedly.

Felix rolls his eyes, plopping himself down on one of Oliver’s chairs. “Oh cheers. “He mutters, looking genuinely insulted.

Venetia eyes Farleigh suspiciously. “It’s not a bad idea actually, Felix can smooth any ruffled feathers, he’s the most neutral out of all of us and they respect him enough as the Catton son.” Farleigh hates how bloody right Venetia is, damn her and her apt strategic thinking. Venetia gives a sharp cruel grin of pearly veneers, warmongering glint in her eye. No wonder her and Oliver get on so well, Jesus. “Then we’ll just bleed Henry dry and kick him out on his harmless bankrupt mummified corpse arse.”

“This is a fool proof plan.” Felix notes like he understood anything that came out of Venetia’s mouth. Twirling a strand of his hair round his finger, Felix eyes Oliver sweetly where he’s positioned standing close to where Felix is sat. “I’m the best schmoozer, even Ollie thinks so.”

“Jesus Christ.” Farleigh groans, lord save him from these two freaks.

“It’s a done deal then,” Oliver says already moved onto other things in his head, he tends to do this a lot. Thoroughly given up on any pretence of making this feel like it’s a democracy. Hardly, they’re all under the bloody dictatorship of Kim Jong Ollie. “Venetia tell them they have the okay on the press release. Then we need to talk strategy before Farleigh has to leave.”

With Venetia gone, Oliver turns his attention back to him. “You need to head downtown in an hour to speak to the press.” He reminds him.

“Then they’ll be the boring obligatory co*cktail party where everyone will be fighting over who gets to kiss your arse first.” Felix drawls at Oliver’s elbow.

A sudden giddiness comes over his pale face. “We should celebrate something later though Farls, just us. You’d like that right?”

Farleigh’s mouth goes dry.

“Of course he would.” Oliver answers on his behalf.

Farleigh’s eyes meet Oliver’s, a silent communication passing between them. What the hell have you done Oliver? Farleigh thinks. Oliver quirks an eyebrow, lips curling up.

Felix completely naïve to their whole non-verbal exchange, keeps prattling on. “We could go to yours later tonight Ollie after the whole thing is over and done with.” The idea pleases Felix tremendously. Farleigh manages to get himself to swallow, he’s never noticed it before how Felix’s eyes seem to track the movement, following the bob of his throat. With it comes a sudden heat to Felix’s gaze and then it’s gone as quick as it came, and Felix is looking up at him totally innocent once more.

“Settle down.” Oliver says to Felix quietly.

Felix ducks his head, embarrassed. But then he’s tilting up staring imploringly at Farleigh. “Sorry, I’m just so happy for you mate, honestly.” Then he reaches forward taking hold of one of Farleigh’s hands, helplessly Farleigh lets him. Allows himself to be drawn in, closer to Felix’s blinding sunshine rays but also closer into Oliver’s dark monstrous clutches. “I’ll be around a lot more now, I promise.” Felix swears, so precious in how sincere he sounds.

They don’t deserve him, neither Oliver nor Farleigh. Regardless of what Oliver’s told him, which all could turn out to be silk thread spun lies. That doesn’t change the pedestal that Farleigh will always place Felix on. “That’s,” Farleigh starts weakly, “great Felix – I’m glad.” Giving a strained smile.

Felix gives one last supernova smile before dropping Farleigh’s hand.

At some point Venetia joins them again, her and Oliver resuming their plotting of culling the sycophants from the ranks. Farleigh half listens, his hand gone cold at his side.

Farleigh watches Felix watching Oliver, kicking himself with how he could have missed it. It’s clear from how Felix gazes at him as if Oliver hung the bloody moon that there’s always been more to them than meets the eye. How he clearly goes back to him again and again despite Oliver treating him like total sh*t. How did Felix get in so deep?

Had he known as much as Farleigh knows now? Had he seen Oliver for what he was or had he been totally unaware, innocent prey wandering too close to the lion’s den. Or had it been the opposite, had Felix known exactly the kind of man Oliver was and fallen in with him anyway? Farleigh isn’t sure he wants to know.

It’s twisted, now that Farleigh is suffering the same fate as well, caught up in Oliver’s spider web.

And looking over at Oliver, well, he’s smiling the smile of a man who’s got exactly what he wanted. Like he’s gotten every f*cking thing.

But if Oliver thinks Farleigh is going to make it easy for him, he has no idea. The gloves are off now, Farleigh doesn’t plan to draw any boundaries either. Fully prepared to stop at nothing to cause Oliver some lasting damage, carve this disease out of his family. Cauterise any trace of Oliver Quick.

The hatred is boiling in him. Really Oliver has no idea, no f*cking idea what he’s created, who he’s dealing with, the enemy he’s made today.

“Farleigh?” Oliver asks suddenly, snapping Farleigh out of his thoughts. “You still with us?” He inquires innocuously, but something in his eyes blazing and f*cking knowing. Like he’s cracked open Farleigh’s head and is reading every single one of his thoughts.

“Yeah,” Farleigh answers determined, suddenly feeling unhinged. As f*cking crazy as Oliver looks. “I’m here.” He counters. Oliver wants to play, oh Farleigh will play, he’s going to give Oliver a run for his f*cking money.

Between them sits Felix, blissfully unaware, back to fiddling with a strand of his hair as his eyes dart back and forth between the two of them.

Then, Oliver’s eyes on Farleigh, positively beaming manically at finally facing off against a worthy opponent. Oliver’s lips curl upwards, baring his sharp teeth right back at Farleigh, answering his challenge.