Prevail - [Charles Leclerc]

Trois

Sunday morning, October 17. Charles could barely get his eyes to open, and when he managed to lift his eyelids, he squeezed his eyes shut again against the bright sunlight that shone through the windows of his bedroom. He turned to his other side, pushing a pillow over his head. A headache was pounding against the back of his skull mercilessly, and his blood pressure was high as he heard the echo of his heart beating against his ribcage. Charles took a deep breath, now turning to his back. His world was still spinning, and he slowly sat up. An annoyed scowl was visible on his face. The first thing he noticed was his clothes sprawled over the floor, shirt and slacks dropped in a random corner in his room, his watch messily thrown onto his desk, his jacket hanging half over the doorknob of his closet. His mind wasn't really connecting the dots yet. Actually, his mind wasn't connecting anything. Charles stumbled into the bathroom, and he leaned over the sink. He grabbed the plastic cup from the cabinet and filled it with water, drinking it for his sore and dry throat.

He chugged back a couple of glasses of water, which only made his stomach heavier, and it made him more nauseous than he already was. From the sink, he stepped to the toilet, emptying his stomach there. Charles' cheeks burned up, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Right, last night. He sat still for a moment and flushed before standing up straight and making his way back to the sink to rinse his mouth and was his hands. He looked at the reflection of himself. He was a mess, literally. His hair was tousled, his eyes were bloodshot and dull. Charles splashed some water in his face, raking his fingers through his raven strands. Did he smell? Probably, but he couldn't gather the energy to shower right now. He turned his face, his fingers running over the mark on his neck. A hickey, classic. As if he was sixteen all over again. Charles got out of the bathroom, picking his clothes from the floor. Memories of last night slowly came back while he made his bed a little and dumped his clothes in the laundry bin.

Charles had left his birthday dinner in outrage of the news Matteo Abril just spread. A marriage between Charles and Matteo's daughter, Sara, was arranged for over twenty-one years already, and not once had his mother spoken to him about it. Pascale could prepare him for it, but she kept it a secret, and it was hard to take at the moment. Charles dearly wanted to understand why the hell she had thrown in her son for a marriage for a deal, which made him wonder what could have been so crucial that she wanted to decide his future for him. It made him feel frustrated, and his fingers briefly curled into a fist with anger. There was no way he would have been able to behave properly at the restaurant, which is why he left. He didn't want to ruin the evening that had already been ruined, even more. After a few phone calls outside of the restaurant were made, he went straight to the club of one of his friends. Charles never told his friends about what had happened, they never asked anyway.

Bottles of vodka were served, Scotch on the rocks easily knocked back, and he was sure about one thing, he didn't want to remember Matteo Abril and his family ever disturbing his birthday dinner like that ever again. The result? A massive hangover. Charles couldn't recall much after the bottle of vodka was finished. He hadn't brought anyone back home, which was a good thing. Someone had given him a hickey, but God may know who. And he didn't care, either. Charles threw a pair of sweats on, slipping into a sweater as well, and he headed downstairs. It was past lunchtime already, and he knew what kind of look would be on his mother's face if she came across him right now. In her eyes, he had probably made a fool of himself, and he probably had, and he had perhaps been immature about the situation, yet again he couldn't care less. The way the bomb of the marriage was dropped on him, that was unfair, and they couldn't change his mind about it. To avoid that confrontation right after he woke up and puked his intestines out, Charles crossed the hallway and went into his office.

His throat still felt dry, and he probably needed a day of drinking water and a good night of sleep before he'd feel a little well rested and hydrated again. He opened the door, and stepped in. A woman was standing in front of his desk, picking up one of the picture frames.