Dorian sighs, rubbing his eyes as he stood in his office in his beach home in Los Angeles. He turns around and looked out at the sun rising over the water. It is too damned early for this, especially after the long night he’d had before his driver had brought him home and he’d passed out.

“Beth, I really don’t have the patience for this,” he snaps into the phone.

The pleasant-sounding, female voice on the other end of the line laughs. “You’ve had plenty of time,” she says, the British accent making her voice sound a little grating.

“I send you £2000 a month. That’s more than most people in the States make in a month,” he growls. “You can’t possibly need more funds.”

“No,” Beth replies. “I don’t. Your son needs his father. I want to send him to you for a year in the States.”

Dorian feels himself pale. “Have you gone daft? I can’t have a child here, Beth.”

“Why? Too busy tomcatting about? He needs his father, Dorian. One year,” she insists.

He grits his teeth. “I’ve never even seen him. What the hell am I supposed to do with a six-year-old? I haven’t even told the person I’m seeing I have a child! You’re complicating my life, Beth, and you told me that would not happen if I sent you the money.”

Beth sighs on the other end of the line. “I’ve changed my mind. Stop paying for him, if you like, but he will be on a plane to see you in a month. Teach him to ride a bicycle or play the piano or to catch a ball. I don’t care, Dorian, but be his bloody father!”

Dorian hangs his head, knowing she would send him whether he wants her to or not. “A year. A year, Beth, no more.” He could hire a governess for Christopher, he was certain. Sarah would delight in having a child in the house, but she could hardly be expected to take care of his home and a child. “Call me when you have everything arranged.”

“Thank you,” Beth murmurs. “I know we parted on poor terms, Dorian, but I’ve never spoken ill of you to him. He knows all about his father, has seen your photo in the papers. It’s unfair of you to keep away, to keep him away.”

“I’ll talk to you later, Beth,” he grinds out, just wanting to hang up. After some half-hearted farewells, Dorian hangs up.

After a moment, he shouts a string of curses in four languages before flopping back into his desk chair.

A bloody nightmare, that’s what this was.

What was he going to do with his son for a year?

And what the hell was he going to tell Ganymede?

Dorian stepped through into the large, airy bedroom in his home by the ocean in Los Angeles. The windows were still thrown open just as he'd left them, the white curtains billowing with salt-scented air as a summer breeze wafted through the room. The room itself is dominated by a massive bed, the wrought iron posts and headboard stark contrast among the white linens and mounds of pillows.

What had always amused people was that Dorian's home was minimally furnished, decorated in mostly white with only various splashes of red to break it up, and was intensely clean. Everything was in its place, just as he liked it, and after the lavish parties he threw, everything was always back where it belonged before he fell asleep.

The door closes behind Ganymede and Dorian goes to the bedroom door itself and shouts down.

"Sarah! I have a guest staying with me! Keep that in mind when you cook supper!"

An older woman's voice floated up from somewhere down below. "Yes, Mr. Gray! Supper will be reading in an hour!"

Dorian turns and leans against the doorjamb, watching Ganymede.

"Welcome home, pretty," he murmurs.

Dorian had woken, the acid having worked its way out of his system, to the warm weight of Ganymede in his arms.

That had been disconcerting to say the least, because he'd liked waking up like that.

He'd promptly wormed his way out of the bed and into a shower.

When his stomach had twisted with hunger, he'd dressed and done down into the bar. A tray was ordered, full of his favorite foods, and then makes his way back upstairs, arms full of food. It takes a moment, but he manages to balance the tray and open the door, kicking it shut behind him as he returns to the bed, settling the tray on it.

Mmm. Food.

Food first, he decides, fun afterward.

He opens the door to the sparsely furnished room.

It might be sparsely furnished, but the fabrics he's brought from home are colorful and indulgent: silk, satin, velvet, lace. A mound of pillows on the bed, a chest at the foot where his toys lay, and he turns on only a handful of lights. The room dimly lit.

"Come in, Ganymede," he calls, tempting his new-found delight into his den. "Come in and shut the door."