It was one shot. Then another.
Griffin knew that the alcohol wouldn't help. He knew that there was nothing in the bottle to save him. But there was something in it that made him feel less alone, some type of irony that made it seem like he was celebrating life instead of trying to drown it out.
Maybe if he drank enough, the devil inside him would suffocate.
It took a lot for him to get drunk, but two full bottles of wine seemed to do the trick. He could feel the darkness taking over him with each glass. It wasn't that the darkness wasn't in him before - the alcohol didn't create the devil. It only made the host lazy – too lazy, in fact – to keep up the defenses that kept the devil out.
And when the devil had fully taken over his mind, Griffin stood and went to Patrick's room.
He didn't bother to knock. He threw the door open with a slam, and Patrick jumped, spinning around from his place next to the window.
"And what do I owe the pleasure?" Patrick asked with a mocking smile.
Griffin pointed a finger at him. "You. Get out."
Patrick gave a slight smirk, reaching down for a glass of water by the window. He took a sip. "You're not that angry with me, are you? After all, your business is failing and there weren't many options --"
"Enough!" Griffin said, running his hands roughly through his hair. "Enough of your charm speak and manipulations! You've been trying to control my business since you got here. I don't need your help. I don't need anyone's help. If this place burns to the ground, I'll fail alone before I accept a handout from the devil."
Patrick put his glass down. "You're drunk? That's very unlike you."
"Don't tell me what I'm like."
"Why not? Everyone else does. You've worked so hard on that brooding reputation of yours. Don't get angry at those of us who know you better. Myself and Rose, we know you're really like. Even Catriona --"
Griffin picked up a book from the shelf beside him and threw it, knocking Patrick's glass off the table, the water spilling all over the floor.
"Don't say her name," Griffin growled. "Don't you dare say it."
Patrick looked at the glass on the floor with a raised eyebrow. There was a long pause.
"I've known you our whole lives, Nathaniel," Patrick finally said. "I've never seen you so possessive. I think Samantha might have ruined you forever. And like a fool, you let her. Now it's too late."
Griffin took a step forward, hating the lack of emotion on Patrick's face. "What do you mean, it's too late?"
Patrick ran his tongue against his bottom lip. "I've asked her to marry me."
Griffin frowned. "Samantha?"
"Catriona."
The words lingered in the air so heavy that Griffin thought he might fall to the ground.
"You -- You what? You asshole. You can't come into my house and take over. First, you invite criminals into my home and then you propose to my --"
He stopped. Patrick waited for a moment before rolling his eyes.
"Your what?" Patrick asked. "Your staff? I wish you'd stop calling her that. Not because it isn't true, but because that's not how you see her. It never was. But you happen to be all bark and no bite. Samantha didn't leave you because Uncle --- had more money. She left you because you were always too much of a coward to go after what you really wanted."
Griffin's fist landed with Patrick's jaw, and Patrick stumbled back, taking the hit with an ironic laugh.
"I can't believe it," he said proudly. He rubbed his chin with a smile. "You actually hit me."
"I want you out of my house by sunrise," Griffin spat. "Don't you dare step foot in this place again."
"You're really set on cutting yourself off from your whole family, aren't you? If you want to die alone, so be it. Enjoy your success without a soul to share it with."
Griffin was halfway out the door before Patrick could finish his sentence. He barely heard the words, overcome with a fire he hadn't felt in years.
But fire could only consume. And Griffin could think of nothing else but to go after what was burning in his most.
He pounded on the staff room door, hanging on the frame as he waited for someone to open it. He heard the footsteps shuffle behind the door, and after a moment, it slowly opened, with two brown eyes peeking out.
"Mr. Griffin -" Catriona nearly whispered, "is something wrong?"
"My office." He commanded. "Now."
"But it's so la--"
He left before she finished her sentence. He heard her footsteps slowly follow from behind, and he opened the door to his office, not waiting for her to enter before reaching for the whiskey on the top shelf.
The door clicked shut behind them.
"Mr. Griffin -" Catriona said. "You seem quite --"
"Terrifying?" he asked with a laugh.
"Broken," she replied.
His glass froze halfway to his lips. Before he could even sip the whiskey, he slammed it down the desk.
"Why do you do that?" Griffin asked.
"What?"
"Ignore the obvious evil in a man?"
She shifted her weight. "I think people always have the best of intentions... there's always a reason for everything a person says or does --"
"So you excuse it?" he asked, laughing. "Instead of holding a man responsible, you encourage his sins? That doesn't make you compassionate, Catriona. It makes you a target."
"What do you want me to do then? Point out all your crimes? Become the morality police?"
"At least acknowledge the evil around you. Your desperation for a perfect world makes you hopelessly foolish."
She bit her lip, her eyes falling to the floor. "This isn't you. It's the alcohol talking."
"It's not the alcohol. This is who I've always been. This is the monster that lurks behind a suit and a paycheck. What do you think of him? Are you scared of him? Does he disgust you?"
She stepped forward, staring him straight in the eye.
"Yes," she said, clear as day.
His breath shattered, her honesty both confirming his worst fears and fulfilling his highest hopes for honesty.
"Yes, I hate this weakness in you," she continued. "But no more than I hate the weakness in myself. The weakness you see that I can't remedy."
He stepped in closer to her, trying to stand tall even though his knees were weakening. "Does it matter to you so much what I see?"
She nodded. "Yes."
"You should know that I see weakness in everyone."
"Do you ever see strength?"
Griffin's fingers raised to her hair, gently stroking it. "Yes."
There was a long pause as his breath strangled him.
"Don't marry him, Catriona."
"What?"
"Patrick. Don't accept his proposal."
Catriona gave an ironic laugh without any heart in it. "Good news travels fast."
"You can't accept," he replied. "Patrick isn't known for his commitment. He has multiple ex-wives–"
"And enough estate to live comfortably without fear of deportation. And he's offered to help my sister. Isn't that what you said? To find a man to do those things for me?"
She turned to leave, but he stepped forward and grabbed her arm. "Not with him."
She tried to shrug him off. "So you can make a business deal with marriage and I can't? Isn't that a double standard?"
"You don't know him like I do."
"Who cares what you know? You don't do anything with it. You just expect the rest of us to."
"I want to keep you safe."
"You want me to obey you."
"I want you to trust me."
"And why should I?"
The answer got stuck in Griffin's throat. He couldn't answer, even though the alcohol in his system had freed him of everything else. There were just some thoughts, however, that he was still a prisoner of.
"Why should I trust you over Patrick?" Catriona asked. "He's done nothing but try to satisfy my heart. Patrick has been kind to me, he encourages me, he fawns over me and doesn't hold back anything he's --"
He grabbed the back of her head and pressed his lips hard against hers. His kiss was rough, a touch sloppy from the alcohol. He felt her take a step back, but he pulled her back towards him, her heat mingling so well with his own. She had kissed him drunk and now it was his turn – it was his turn to go after what he wanted as passionately as she did.
Dizzy from alcohol and desperation, he released his lips from hers.
"Are you satisfied?" he growled.
Catriona shoved him back, slapping him hard across the face. Griffin took it, only looking off to the side. She turned on her heel and flew out the door without a word, and he leaned against his desk, his knees suddenly failing under him.
He threw a hand over his eyes.
"Are you satisfied?" he whispered to no one but himself.