The Glass Orchid by Emma Barron

thing he saw was the carom table before him, the only thing he felt was the warmth from the heated slate, the only thing he heard was the crack of the balls hitting each other.
    Another count scored.
    Camden was reassured. He was in control. He was still able to rein in any wayward thoughts or unruly emotions and focus solely on the task in front him. It calmed him, the knowledge that he still had himself on a tight leash.
    Camden glanced at Wittingham as he backed away from the table. He consciously schooled his features into an expression of bland impassivity. “There’s no one,” he said. “Just the usual tiredness from work.”
    Wittingham arched a brow. He stared at Camden silently, making no move to the billiards table to take his turn.
    Camden grew uncomfortable. “What?” he said defensively.
    “I am merely trying to decide whether to allow you your obfuscation, or if I should call you on it.”
    “I’m not obfuscating,” Camden insisted, though he knew he did not sound convincing.
    “So we’re going with ‘tiredness from work’ then, are we?” Wittingham tossed his cue stick on the table, surrendering to Camden’s insurmountable lead. “Perhaps you ought to take a holiday from work, go have some fun.”
    Camden made a snorting sound, as if Wittingham’s suggestion was the most absurd thing he had ever heard. “My father would never allow it.”
    Wittingham leaned against the billiard table and drained his brandy glass. He was as impeccably dressed as ever, his waistcoat pristine, his cravat expertly tied in a complicated knot, his expression smooth and mostly aloof with just the slightest hint of his usual snobbish disdain for life in general. It was only because Camden knew him so well that he could identify the signs of slightly drunken and somewhat exasperated concern. Wittingham’s eyes were slightly red-rimmed, his
S
’s faintly sibilant, his posture just a touch less than impeccable, and he looked like he wanted to grab Camden by the shoulders and shake him. He leaned in a bit, and for a moment Camden was afraid he would do just that.
    “Have you ever considered,” Wittingham said as he walked to the sideboard to pour himself another brandy, “telling your father to sod off?”
    “Wittingham, really,” Camden said with all the careful patience of a reassuring adult speaking to an outrageously fanciful child — or to a man gone regrettably insane. “Stop talking nonsense and — ”
    “No, I mean it. Tell your father exactly where he can stuff his stupid company and his never-ending demands and go off on a much-needed, well-deserved, and long-delayed holiday.”
    Camden was about to tell Wittingham exactly why that was such a ridiculous suggestion when he realized he wasn’t sure what to even say. Why
shouldn’t
he have a holiday? He had been working non-stop for almost two months, never taking a full day off, and rarely even taking the evening off. His father would never approve, of course, but perhaps it
was
time to stand up to his father. He had defied him once, when he went to see Del, and the skies hadn’t fallen, nor had the ground swallowed him up for his impertinence.
    Except —
    He
had
lost his control, he had let his anger swell up and overtake him, and the only thing worse than all that was the fact he had done it in front of Del. She had seen his basest, most ungoverned self. And then she had looked at him and told him it wouldn’t work; he didn’t deserve to be around her.
    In the end, his father had been right: lose your self-control and you lose everything.
    So, no, Camden would not be telling his father to sod off or stuff it or whatever other ill-advised imperative Wittingham could come up with. He needed to pacify his father right now, not provoke him. And he needed to regain his discipline, not entertain fanciful notions of taking off on holiday in a fit of petulant rebellion. He most certainly did not need to waste his time pining over a doomed relationship