His father possessed the same volatile temper.
That was the part Simon despised most.
He could tolerate looking like the man. He had grown accustomed to seeing pieces of his father in the mirror—the brown hair, the light brown eyes, and other similarities that became more apparent with age.
But this? This was something else.
His father, while he was alive, was prone to violent bouts of rage, the kind that could turn an ordinary household into a place of dread.
Simon remembered what it felt like to watch the shift in his father’s moods, to see the change come over him without warning.
He remembered how the servants would quietly retreat from rooms, careful not to draw attention to themselves, and how his mother became cautious about every word she spoke, terrified of doing anything that might incur more of her husband’s wrath.
Simon did not want that anger inside him.
Yet there it was, another way in which his father still controlled his life even from beyond the grave.
He released the clump of hair he had been clenching in his fist. It fell beside the rest. The shears fell next, clattering against the floor.
The long hair had become another sign of his decline. There was a time when he was particular about his appearance, keeping his hair cropped close to his scalp and his jaw clean-shaven. He liked to present himself a certain way and had never been afraid to spend money to maintain it.
But as his circumstances deteriorated, he gradually stopped bothering with the things that no longer seemed important. He still groomed himself and dressed properly. He could not bring himself to become a complete slob.
But he had stopped caring about the small details.
The hair grew because he could not be bothered to cut it.
Now he looked at the mess around him and realized something strange. He did not regret cutting it.
He regretted the way he had done it.
That distinction mattered.
At least this was something in his life that he could still control.
Simon strode to the full-length mirror on the other side of the room.
The man staring back at him looked almost unfamiliar.
His hair was uneven, hacked roughly, with some parts shorter than the others, giving him the appearance of someone who had allowed an inexperienced barber to take a blade to his head in the dark.
He stared at himself in silence, then slowly turned to one side.
His frame was painfully thin.
He had noticed the weight loss before. His waistcoats no longer sat the way they once had, and his shirts hung more loosely against his frame. Even his breeches needed to be fastened tighter around his waist than they had in the past.
He simply hadn’t cared enough to examine the matter closely.
Now he did.
Simon reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head.
He had never been a heavy man. Even in better days, he possessed a lean build, but there had been substance to him. His shoulders had been broader, his body carrying the solid weight of a man who ate properly, slept properly, and did not spend half his life drowning himself in liquor.
Now there was very little softness anywhere.
He turned this way and that, trying to get a proper look at himself.
His collarbones were more pronounced. His ribs were not yet sharply visible, but their outline was beginning to show beneath his skin whenever he twisted, just short of looking sickly.
He rested one hand against his flat abdomen. The brown eyes staring back at him were his father’s. For an uncomfortable instant, the resemblance to his devil of a father seemed stronger than ever.
---
Simon went to a barber later in the day.
He did not explain how the damage came about. There was little point. The barber studied the uneven lengths, trying his best not to say anything that might cause offense as he trimmed the worst of the damage with careful, practiced movements.
By the end, the hair was considerably shorter than it had been in years.
Simon preferred it that way.
A letter from his lover, Agatha Dubarry, was waiting for him when he returned home. Roland handed it to him as soon as he stepped inside.
The seal was still intact when Simon rudely snatched it from the man’s hand. He broke it open and quickly read through the letter.
Agatha wanted him to meet her at their flat. She was probably already waiting for him there.
Turning around to head back out the door, he paused when he noticed Roland standing a few paces away, leveling Simon with a reproachful stare. With his lips pursed the way they were, it was easy to guess what the man was thinking.
"You are not subtle, you know," Simon drawled, folding up the letter. "Don’t be shy. If you have something to say, go ahead and say it. You have never held back before."
The hostility was palpable, and between them stood a thick wall built from years of unresolved hurt and resentment.
"Off to see one of your married lovers?" Roland asked, squaring his shoulders. "Adultery is a sin. You are tarnishing marriages, holy unions blessed by God."
"I frankly couldn’t care less, neither do the women I fuck. They are actually very satisfied with the arrangement, so much so that they keep coming back." Simon’s scoff was derisive. He was baiting the man. Roland did not like him or his lifestyle, and Simon did not care what the man thought of him.
Roland shook his head. "Your mother’s heart would break if she could see you now."
Simon’s rage flared like a flame being stoked, his eyes flashing with disdain. In the next moment, he rounded on the older man.
Roland was not just his butler; he was also a family friend of sorts. The man had worked for Simon’s father, Alexander Montague, for years and practically watched Simon grow up.
Simon hated it because it meant Roland had witnessed the worst aspects of his childhood.
𝙛𝒓𝒆𝙚𝒘𝒆𝓫𝙣𝓸𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝒄𝒐𝓶
"If you ever mention my mother again with that filthy mouth of yours, becoming unemployed will be the least of your worries." His eyes blazed with hatred. "Get out of my sight!"
Roland held his gaze for a second longer, his expression hardening, before finally slinking away.