Chapter Text
He’d ruined her life.
Rupert Campbell-Black had ruined Taggie O’Hara’s life.
Not that he hadn’t always suspected he somehow would; vividly picturing his hands physically soiling her goodness with the sins of his past any time he dared touch her.
He just hadn’t expected it to happen quite like that.
Or so publicly.
‘Fucking idiot.’
He took another drag of his cigarette, leaning forwards on his bare forearms atop the patio wall, and absentmindedly watching Beaver sniffing about the south lawn.
Flicking away the ash, Rupert’s eyes strayed up through the dissipating smoke and out past the bluebell wood, locking onto the main focus of his attention any time he ventured into the balmy, late-summer air.
The Priory.
Or, even more accurately—if he allowed himself to admit it—the glinting, warm white light glowing through what he knew to be Taggie’s bedroom window.
Once, he’d preferred the west lawn; enjoying watching the sun set through the trees with a whisky and a cigarette after a long day in parliament, or throwing a ball for the dogs to scamper after. Yet, since last summer, he’d found himself over on this side of the building more and more of an evening—even before he’d admitted to himself just why that was.
It was Taggie, of course. His desire to be nearer to her even when located on opposite sides of their estates’ abutting fields. Even if it lessened the distance by only a few yards.
It had been three days since he’d seen her.
Three days was nothing really. They’d gone three days without seeing each other before, but not for over a month now. And not under such fraught circumstances.
Well, Rupert supposed the fallout of everything with Cameron and Tony counted as somewhat fraught.
While he had to credit the strength of Cameron’s swing, Rupert was definitely glad it hadn’t been quite enough to finish old Tony off. He’d seen the yellowing bruises, and the crescent scar marring the side of his head of course—as had all of Cotchester when he’d at last resurfaced from his “leave of absence”—but the cause of such injuries had been swiftly and efficiently obscured.
Rupert had wondered at first if it was Tony himself that had urged everything to be covered up; ego too wounded for it to be common knowledge that a woman had got the better of him, or the result of a desire to conceal his own despicable attempts at violence towards the woman in question. Yet when he spied Tony while on the campaign trail, Monica firmly by his side with a governing hand at his elbow, he was reminded who—for all Tony’s blustering and grand-standing—was truly in control of that relationship.
People gossiped, certainly. The Scorpion published articles full of theories and speculation, but with no evidence or witnesses coming forward to confirm the events of that night, the whispers were forced firmly behind closed doors.
That, of course, left Cameron: shaken, panicking, and desperate to retain her work visa.
He was ashamed to say he’d laughed in her face when she’d proposed; more out of shock than anything else, yet he’d still regretted the hurt and anxiety crossing her face at his reaction. Thankfully, he’d managed to talk her down from her catastrophising; rejecting her proposal, but reassuring her that he hadn’t forgotten his promise to look after her.
It had taken several days, a lot of begging around Westminster, and writing several blank cheques for favours—to be redeemed at the recipient’s whim—but he’d finally managed it.
And so, here she was: still in England, on a work visa… as Rupert’s personal secretary.
It had seemed like the broadest, vaguest role he could get the occupation changed to on her forms, and guaranteed her to be in no danger of being deported as he was hardly likely to fire her—especially considering what had happened to her last employer.
Everything was above board, and he even paid her a salary, but she was his secretary in name only, instead devoting her time to working on the franchise bid, and future plans for Venturer’s range of programmes should they succeed.
Christ, Rupert hoped they succeeded. Then he may at least begin to recoup some of his losses. Monetarily, at least.
Things between him and Cameron were still strained, even as they wordlessly agreed to continue working together though he’d abruptly pulled back from their relationship that very night—his rejection of her proposal acting as a kind of rejection of them as a couple. She’d moved into her own flat—Tony free—and dedicated herself to her work; her and Rupert broken up in all but name.
He could hardly have continued any sort of romantic relationship with her after that night.
Rupert stubbed out the embers of his cigarette into the cut-glass ashtray he’d carried outside with him, savouring the burn of his whisky as he took a swig and thought over the events of three days ago.
Strained was perhaps too kind a term for how everything was between them now.
For how everything was between everyone now.