Chapter Eight Tristan #3
A corner of his mouth lifted. “I’ll have to tell Ollie you’ve changed.”
“You can tell Ollie whatever the fuck you like.” I inclined my head towards the edge of the room. “And if you’re in the market for indulgence, you might find Benjamin Rothwell more accommodating to your particular needs.”
Benjamin was half-hidden by a potted palm, unwrapping something discreetly in his palm before he lifted it to his nose.
Cocaine. At a baby shower.
White powder. Silver-spoon world.
Drugs here vanished with a dab and a laugh while the men who moved it, cut it, bled for it were catalogued, charged, and left to rot.
Razor, the man I loved, sat in a concrete box, while this disappeared up the treacherous Benji Rothwell’s nostril between canapé courses.
Even Wolfe across the room with his polished charm, shaking my father’s hand as if he was one of him, trafficked in his own, quieter poisons.
My gut clenched.
Theo followed my line of sight and wrinkled his nose. “Not my type.”
“I don’t think he’s anyone’s.”
“Oh, how wonderful!” Mother swept in then, all bright eyes and floating silk. “I’m so pleased you boys have found each other.”
I closed my eyes.
Theo, perfectly trained, lifted his glass to hers. “It is, Mrs Hale-Fitzroy. And I was just persuading Tristan here,” he tipped his flute towards me, “to give me a tour of the house. I’d love to see where the little cherub will be sleeping.”
I shot him a look.
Mother beamed. “Oh, you simply must, darling. You could show him the games room while you’re up there. Marcus has a full-sized snooker table. You play snooker, Theo?”
“I do like bending over a firm table with a good set of balls.” Theo smirked at me, taking a sip of his drink. “Game, Tristan?”
I could have throttled him.
“Well, don’t let me keep you.” Mother stroked my arm. “Catch you at dinner, darling.” She gave me an air-kiss then drifted away.
“You’re a prick,” I whispered, watching Wolfe lean into my father’s ear before turning aside.
“But your mother likes me.”
“Mm.” I didn’t look at him. My attention stayed fixed on Wolfe as he carved a smooth path through the room, parting it without effort. His gaze found mine and held.
He didn’t look away.
Neither did I.
And I could feel his eyes stripping me back, layer by layer, as if he could reach beneath skin and bone and read exactly who my heart belonged to. Thankfully, someone in a dark suit intercepted him, drawing him off before the moment could settle into something far more dangerous.
“So you know old Lord Wolfey?” Theo asked, flippancy gone to be replaced with something sharper. He’d seen it. Understood it.
“A touch.”
“Ah. Ollie was right.”
I glanced at him then. “Ollie should be reminded he never once managed to make me come without being told what to do.”
Theo tilted his head, dragging his gaze slowly over me. “I could—”
“You couldn’t.” I stepped back. “If you’ll excuse me.”
I didn’t wait for permission and drifted over to Father in time to see him cough into a tissue, fold it neatly, and slip it back into his inside pocket.
“Dad.” I inclined my head.
“Ah, Tristan.” He drew a handkerchief from his lapel and dabbed at his mouth before returning it, then reached for his G&T from the mantelpiece.
His voice was rough. Crooked. I was used to it now, but moments like this stripped away the illusion that everything underneath was holding steady.
“Glad you could find the time to make it.”
“I was under the impression attendance wasn’t optional.”
A smile touched his mouth. Polite. Distant. “Nevertheless, your presence has been noted. And appreciated.”
I nodded, then drifted my gaze deliberately over the room. To Wolfe, now deep in conversation with someone else, resting his hand too comfortably on a stranger’s elbow.
“I saw you speaking with Adrian.”
Father followed my glance, unhurried. “Yes. As you know, in rooms like this, work tends to circulate whether one invites it or not.”
“What are you working on with him?”
He took a sip of his drink before answering. Not evasive. Deliberate. Enough to make it clear the question hadn’t surprised him.
“Nothing new.” He shook his head. “Nothing you need concern yourself with.”
“I hear that a lot. That I shouldn’t concern myself. I’ve found it has the opposite effect.”
Father turned to me. His posture relaxed. His gaze, not so.
He sighed. “Imogen has taken an interesting brief.”
“She takes many.” I sipped my drink, trying not to give any indication I knew what he could possibly be referring to.
“So she does.” His tone remained conversational. “Though some attract more attention than others. Particularly when they intersect… awkwardly.”
“With what?” I asked, though I suspected exactly what Wolfe had been whispering into my father’s ear while I was being propositioned at my brother’s baby shower.
The paperwork wasn’t even stamped yet, and Wolfe had found the small print.
“With visibility,” Father replied. “Perception. And legacy.”
I felt the space between us tighten. “If you’re concerned about Imogen’s judgement, I’m sure she’d welcome the discussion.”
His smile returned, thin as paper. “I’m not concerned about Imogen. She knows exactly what she’s doing.”
“So who are you concerned for?”
Father shifted closer, lowering his voice to make the moment private without drawing notice. “Certain cases are not confined to courtrooms. They have a way of travelling. Of attaching themselves to the people involved.”
“I’m aware.”
“I expect you are.” He studied me for a beat longer, then straightened. “Be sure you’re aware of who is watching.”
I followed his gaze back to Wolfe.
Father finished his drink.
“Enjoy the afternoon.” He squeezed my arm. “Your brother’s very pleased you came.”
And with that, he turned away. Conversation closed. Position taken. Consequences already in motion.
Wolfe knew I was on Razor’s case.
Not because the paperwork had travelled.
It hadn’t. Everything had been done properly.
Above board. Conflict checks observed. Walls maintained.
Until the day I walked into that prison visiting room, there had been no contact between us at all.
No calls. No messages. No overlap that could be challenged or traced.
In theory, that should have insulated me.
It didn’t.
This was too fast. Too precise. And too deliberate to be gossip. Wolfe hadn’t stumbled across the information. He’d gone looking for it. And once he’d found it, he’d chosen exactly how, and when, to deploy it.
He’d told my father.
Ordinarily, that would have meant very little.
A raised eyebrow. A whispered warning. The sort of knowledge living in the realm of reputation management rather than real threat.
But Wolfe didn’t traffic in ordinary knowledge.
He trafficked in leverage. And that made the unease settle properly, cold and unwelcome.
Wolfe knew enough. More than he should have, given how carefully I’d kept the lines clean. Not just that I was involved. But why that involvement mattered. How it reached beyond procedure. And how it would hurt to have any other outcome than the one I was ensuring it would get.
But the question wasn’t how he knew.
It was what he intended to do with it.
And who he planned to destroy in the process.